FI  DDLER'S 
LUCK 


ROBERT  HAVEN 
SCHAUFFLER 


GIFT  OF 
Sir  Henry  Heyman 


^^  U  \ 


o. 


rroDLER'S  LUCK 

THE  GAY  ADVENTURES  OP 

A  MUSICAL  AMATEUR 


FIDDLER'S  LUCK 

THE  GAY  ADVENTURES  OF 
A  MUSICAL  AMATEUR 


BY 
ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 

Author  of  " The  Musical  Amateur,**  "Scum  o*  the  Earth,  and 
Other  FoeTos,**  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  River  Me  Press  Cambridge 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,    1920,   BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,   1920,   BY   ROBERT   HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Cud   &I     La    ikujiu    (Uu^u^ 


^66 1 


TO 

THE  SEVENTY-NINTH  DIVISION,  A.E.F. 

THE  3VIARS  HOSPITAL  CENTER 

AND 

MAJORS  JOHN  MCCLELLAN 

AND 

SAMUEL  CRAIG  PLUMMER 

THIS  STORY  IS 

DEDICATED 


bi>2t>i0 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fiddlersluckgayaOOscharich 


FOREWORD 

THE  story  which  follows  was  told  me  by 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  in  fact,  by  a 
brother  fiddler  errant,  during  a  series  of  eve- 
nings after  he  came  back  from  the  Great  War. 
Now  do  not  be  alarmed,  gentle  reader.  It  is 
not  a  war  novel.  I  shall  not  give  you  a  single 
description  of  how  the  hero  captured  seven 
machine-gun  nests  single-handed  or  crawled 
under  the  electrified  prison  fence.  If  anybody 
finds  more  than  2.75  per  cent  of  war  stuff  in 
the  following  pages,  let  him  hastily  bang  the 
cover  to  and  write  me  a  threatening  letter,  and 
I  will  take  up  with  the  extremely  honorable 
house  of  Houghton  Mifflin  the  question  of  giv- 
ing him  his  money  back.  I  can't  say  fairer  than 
that,  can  I? 

As  my  friend  was  a  brother  writer  and  did 
not  wish  his  identity  discovered  by  those  who 
knew  his  style  at  sight,  he  decided  to  tell  me 
the  tale  and  let  me  deal  with  it  in  my  own  pe- 
culiar fashion. 

So  far  as  his  musical  adventures  go,  I  am 
[viil 


FOREWORD 

prepared  to  vouch  for  their  faithfulness,  in  the 
main,  to  fact.  But  as  for  the  love  parts  of  the 
story,  I  shall  have  to  leave  the  question  of 
their  literal  verity  to  be  threshed  out  between 
my  fiddler  errant  and  his  Maker.  I  can  only 
remind  the  reader  what  the  reviewers  of  his 
books  sometimes  say  of  him:  that  he  is  "a 
dreamer  and  an  idealist."  And  who  ever  saw 
a  vagabond  fiddler  of  that  description  allowing 
himself  to  be  shackled  by  abject  slavery  to 
gross  fact  in  telling  a  love  story? 

A  few  paragraphs  near  the  beginning  were 
borrowed  from  my  book,  The  Musical  Amateur ^ 
and  shattered  to  bits,  and  then  "remoulded 
nearer  to  the  heart's  desire."  Chapter  xiii 
originally  appeared  in  the  Outlook^  and  eleven 
of  the  remaining  nineteen  chapters,  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly^  but  in  forms  which  detached 
them  from  the  main  current  of  this  story,  and 
made  them  self-supporting  and  able  to  fend 
for  themselves  in  a  cold,  hard  world,  as  yet 
unaware  of  their  future  context. 


CONTENTS 

I.  I  Find  a  'Cello  in  the  Attic  1 
II.  I  Make  Progress  IN  Fiddler's  Magic  19 

III.  The  Lady  or  the  'Cello?  29 

IV.  Fiddlers  Errant  43 
V.  I  Fiddle  Duets  with  the  Trump  of 

War  65 

VI.  Plattsburg  Deals  WITH  THE  Muses  75 

VII.  The  Regiment  Buys  me  a  'Cello  84 

VIII.  I  Mislay  the  Band  95 

IX.  Fiddler's  Magic  109 

X.  The  "Atlantic"  Supplies  me  with 

Tooth-Paste  122 

XI.  Hobbles  with  a  'Cello  143 

XII.  When  IN  Paris —  157 

XIII.  Inter-Alued  Fiddlesticks  170 

XIV.  Love  Duet  with  Obugato  186 
XV.  My  Bow  Saves  Egypt  196 

XVI.  Un  Moment  d'Amour  215 

XVII.  A  Modern  Nero  223 

XVIII.  I  Bunk  with  the  Strad  232 

XIX.  The  Fall  of  Fort  Beethoven  251 

XX.  A  Duet  for  Life  261 


FIDDLER'S  LUCK 

• 

CHAPTER  I 
I  FIND  A  'cello  in  THE  ATTIC 

I  SEEM  to  have  been  predestined  for  a  life 
of  musical  adventure.  But,  at  the  start,  I 
was  handicapped  by  the  nature  of  my  means  of 
self-expression.  I  was  born,  not  with  a  silver 
spoon,  but'with  a  flute  at  my  mouth.  This  was 
my  family's  chief  hereditary  vehicle  of  music. 
It  had  been  handed  down  the  line  from  age  to 
age  along  with  the  torch  of  Hfe;  so  I  clutched 
and  tootled  it  unquestioningly  until  the  age 
of  fifteen,  and  thought  it  the  divinest  of  in- 
struments. Little  did  I  suspect  how  barren 
that  prosaic  tube  was  in  possibilities  of  ro- 
mance. 

Then,  one  morning,  I  stumbled  upon  a  dusty 
'cello  in  the  attic.  The  look  of  the  thing  inter- 
ested and  puzzled  me  strangely.  It  called  to  my 

[1] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

blood;  why,  I  knew  not,  though  I  learned  later 
that  this  was  the  big  fiddle  that  my  most  tal- 
ented grandparent,  a  mighty  amateur  flutist, 
had  embraced  and  learned  to  play  "deep  stuflf " 
on  at  the  age  of  sixty-three. 

I  had  no  earthly  idea  whether  the  thing 
should  be  tuned  in  thirds  or  sevenths.  From 
previous  desultory  observation  I  just  barely 
recalled  that  the  right  hand  wielded  the  bow. 
But  I  knew  nothing  about  an  end-pin,  and  let 
the  wretched  instrument  squat  ignominiously 
on  the  floor  while  I  made  vain  attempts  to 
apply  the  bow  to  the  strings  without  whitening 
both  my  trouser  knees  with  resin. 

At  an  opportune  moment  I  discovered  an 
instruction  book  which  threw  Hght  on  these 
points.  It  did  far  more.  It  disgorged  a  long  strip 
of  printed  paper  which,  when  pasted  under  the 
strings,  promised  a  short-cut  to  mastery  by 
pointing  out  exactly  where  to  put  each  finger. 
A  few  tentative  experiments,  and  I  fell  devoted 
slave  to  this  strange  mechanism.  Old  things 
were  passed  away,  and,  behold!  all  things  had 
12  1 


I   FIND   A    'CELLO   IN   THE   ATTIC 

become  new.  No  longer  did  the  flute  have  com- 
plete dominion  over  me. 

It  was  a  transition  period  during  which  I 
resembled  the  character  of  "Joy"  in  Collinses 
ode  on  "The  Passions,"  who  — 

"First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest. 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best." 

From  then  on  I  never  had  a  dull  moment. 
No  sooner  had  I  turned  my  back  upon  the 
humdrum  flute  and  embraced  the  romance- 
compelling  fiddle,  than  things  began  happening 
thick  and  fast  in  a  hitherto  uneventful  life. 
For  musical  adventures  depend  largely  on  the 
instrument  you  play.  Go  traveling  with  a  bas- 
soon or  an  alto  horn  packed  in  your  bag  and  ro- 
mance will  pass  you  by.  Far  otherwise  will 
events  shape  themselves  if  you  start  on  your 
wanderings  with  a  fiddle. 

I  found  that  to  sally  forth  upon  the  broad 

highway  with  a  'cello  couchant  under  my  arm, 

like  a  lance  of  the  days  of  chivalry,  was  to 

invite  adventure.  I  compelled  Providence  to 

[3] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

make  things  interesting  for  me  up  to  the  mo- 
ment when  I  returned  home  and  stood  my  fat, 
melodious  comrade  in  the  comer  on  his  one 
leg  —  Kke  the  stork,  that  other  purveyor  of 
agreeable  surprises. 

I  found  that  one  reason  why  the  'cellist  is 
particularly  liable  to  meet  with  these  adven- 
tures is  because  the  natiu'e  of  his  talent  is  so 
plainly  visible.  The  parcel  under  his  arm  labels 
him  Fiddler  in  larger  scare-caps  than  Mr. 
Hearst  has  ever  yet  used  for  head-lines.  It  is 
seen  of  men.  There  is  no  concealment  possible. 
For  it  would,  indeed,  be  less  practicable  to  hide 
your  'cello  under  a  bushel  than  to  hide  a  bushel 
under  your  'cello.  Its  non-reducible  obesity  is 
apt  to  bring  on  incidents  of  all  sorts:  annoying 
sometimes,  as  when  urchins  recognize  it  as  a 
heaven-sent  target  for  snowballs;  absurd  some- 
times, as  when  the  ticket-chopper  in  the  sub- 
way bars  your  path  under  the  misapprehension 
that  it  is  a  double-bass,  or  when  the  small  boys 
at  the  exit  offer  you  a  paper  in  return  for  *'a 
tune  on  that  there  banjo!"  But  more  often  the 
14] 


I   FIND   A    XELLO   IN   THE   ATTIC 

incidents  are  pleasant,  as  when  your  bulky 
trade-mark  enables  some  kindred  spirit  to  rec- 
ognize you  as  the  comrade  destined  by  fate  to 
accompany  him  on  impromptu  adventures  in 
music. 

At  first  I  was  almost  painfully  aware  of  the 
conspicuousness  of  my  'cello,  because  I  was 
abandoning  for  it  an  instrument  so  retiring  by 
nature  that  you  might  carry  it  till  death  in 
your  side  pocket,  yet  never  have  it  contribute 
an  unusual  episode  to  your  career.  But  I  soon 
found  that  the  advantages  far  outweighed  the 
discomforts.  For,  from  the  moment  when  I  dis- 
covered the  exaggerated  old  fiddle  in  the  attic, 
slumbering  in  its  black  coflSn,  and  wondered 
what  it  was  all  about,  and  brought  it  resurrec- 
tion and  life  —  the  adventures,  as  I  have  said, 
began.  I  have  never  known  exactly  what  was 
the  magic  inherent  in  the  dull,  guttural,  dis- 
couraged protests  of  the  strings  which  I  ex- 
perimentally plucked  that  day.  But  their  songs- 
without-words-or-music  seemed  to  me  preg- 
nant with  promises  of  beauty  and  romance  far 
[5] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

beyond  the  ken  of  the  forthright  flute.  So  then 
and  there  I  decided  to  embark  upon  the  deli- 
cate and  dangerous  enterprise  of  thoroughly 
learning  another  instrument. 

It  was  indeed  delicate  and  dangerous  because 
it  had  to  be  prosecuted  as  secretly  as  sketching 
hostile  fortifications.  Father  must  not  suspect. 
I  feared  that  if  he  heard  the  demonic  groans  of 
a  G  string  in  pain,  or  the  ghouhsh  whimperings 
of  a  manhandled  A,  he  would  mount  to  the 
attic,  throw  back  his  head,  look  down  upon  me 
through  those  lower  crescents  of  his  spectacles 
which  always  made  him  look  a  trifle  unsympa- 
thetic, and  pronounce  that  baleful  formula: 
"My  son,  come  into  my  study!"  For  I  knew 
he  labored  under  the  delusion  that  I  already 
"blew  in"  too  much  time  on  the  flute,  away 
from  the  companionship  of  All  Gaul  and 
Q.E.D.  As  for  any  additional  instrument,  I 
feared  that  he  would  reduce  it  to  a  pulp  at 
sight,  and  me  too. 

My  first  secret  step  was  to  paste  the  long 
strip  of  paper  upon  the  finger-board  under  the 
[6] 


I   FIND    A    'CELLO    IN   THE    ATTIC 

strings.  It  was  pockmarked  with  black  dots 
and  letters,  so  that  if  the  music  told  you  to  play 
the  note  G,  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  contort 
your  neck  properly  and  remove  your  left  hand 
from  the  path  of  vision,  then  gaze  cross-eyed 
and  upside  down  at  the  finger-board  until  you 
discovered  the  particular  dot  labeled  G.  The 
next  move  was  to  clap  a  finger-tip  upon  that 
dot  and  straighten  your  neck  and  eyes  and 
apply  the  bow.  Then  out  would  come  a  trium- 
phant G;  that  is,  provided  your  fingers  had  not 
already  rubbed  G's  characteristically  under- 
shot lip  so  much  as  to  erase  away  the  letter's 
individuality.  In  that  case,  to  be  sure,  your 
striving  for  G  might  result  only  in  C  after  all. 
It  was  fascinating  work,  though.  And  every 
afternoon  as  the  hour  of  four,  and  father's 
"constitutional,"  approached,  I  would  "get 
set"  like  a  sprinter  on  my  mark  in  the  upper 
hall.  The  moment  the  front  door  closed  defini- 
tively behind  my  parent  I  would  dash  for  the 
attic  and  commence  my  eye,  neck,  and  finger 
contortions.  It  was  dangerous  work,  too.  For  it 
[7] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

was  so  hard  to  stop  betimes  that  one  evening 
father  made  my  blood  run  cold  by  inquiring, 
"What  were  you  moaning  about  upstairs  before 
dinner?"  I  fear  that  I  attributed  these  sounds 
to  travail  in  Latin  scholarship,  and  an  alleged 
sympathy  for  the  struggles  of  the  dying  Gaul. 

The  paper  finger-board  was  so  efficacious 
that  soon  I  felt  fit  to  taste  the  first  fruits  of 
toil.  A  week  of  furtive  practice  convinced  me 
that  I  could  already  play  the  'cello,  though  I 
now  remember  grasping  the  bow  like  a  tennis- 
racquet  and  the  finger-board  like  a  trolley- 
strap.  I  found  one  of  those  jolly  trios  which  the 
paternal  composer  Cornelius  Gurlitt  so  oblig- 
ingly wrote  in  notes  of  one  syllable,  smuggled 
the  'cello  out  of  the  house,  to  be  returned  by 
the  back  stairs  after  dark,  foregathered  with  a 
couple  of  schoolmates  —  a  brother  and  sister 
who  played  the  violin  and  piano  —  and  was 
thrilled  for  the  first  time  in  my  Ufe  by  the 
golden  electric  current  of  fiddler's  magic. 

Now,  the  amateur's  appreciation  of  music 
is  apt  to  keep  step  with  the  character  of  the 
[8] 


I   FIND    A    'CELLO    IN    THE    ATTIC 

instrument  he  happens  to  play,  and  with  his 
proficiency  thereupon.  So  my  very  first  scrap- 
ings and  stammerings  upon  the  'cello  prepared 
me  to  be  delighted  with  pieces  whose  juvenile 
simplicity  I,  as  a  flexile  flutist,  would  have 
laughed  to  scorn. 

No  effect  of  the  sophisticated  concert  stage 
has  ever  enthralled  me  more  than  that  first 
chord  of  ours,  when  I  heard  the  'cello  tone 
mingle  deliciously  with  the  piano  and  violin 
tones,  and  realized  that  my  bow  had  made  such 
blending  possible.  The  fiute  notes  had  never 
really  mixed  with  others,  but  had  stood  apart 
by  themselves,  crystalHne,  cold,  aloof;  and 
perhaps  my  nature  had  taken  its  cue  from  the 
flute.  But  that  first  trio  venture  changed 
everything.  There  first  I  tasted  the  delights  of 
real  harmony  —  and  developed  a  deep  devotion 
for  Priscilla,  the  little  girl  who  played  the 
piano.  Along  with  musical  democracy  and 
puppy-love,  the  'cello  came  into  my  hfe.  Her- 
alded so  impressively,  no  wonder  it  tangled 
its  strings  among  those  of  my  young  heart. 
[9] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Priscilla  was  a  white-skinned,  stocky  young 
person  with  large  blue  eyes,  a  thick  blond  pig- 
tail, and  well-developed  arms.  She  may  not 
have  been  able  to  make  the  piano  talk,  but  she 
could  undoubtedly  cause  it  to  shout.  Her 
brother  and  I  had  to  saw  away  vigorously  to 
make  our  fiddles  heard  above  the  din,  but  we 
enjoyed  ourselves  all  the  more  for  that.  We 
were  in  that  primitive  stage  of  musical  evolu- 
tion where  the  louder  a  piece  sounds,  the  more 
exciting  it  is;  and  the  more  exciting  it  was,  the 
more  we  all  enjoyed  ourselves. 

I  wanted  that  afternoon  never  to  end.  When 
all  three  of  us  had  stopped  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
I  rose  to  tear  myself  away.  Then  a  wonderful 
idea  came  to  me.  At  least  I  might  prolong  the 
rapture  of  Priscilla's  society,  if  not  of  the  music. 
So  I  blushingly  invited  her  down  to  the  corner 
drug-store  for  an  ice-cream  soda,  alleging  with 
justice  that  playing  so  hard  makes  one  thirsty. 

We  walked  home  very  slowly  and  a  long  way 
around,  and  talked  about  what  an  inspired 
composer  Gurlitt  was  and  what  great  musicians 

[  10  1 


I   FIND    A    'CELLO    IN    THE    ATTIC 

we  were  going  to  be  when  we  grew  up.  She  had 
the  most  graceful  way  in  the  world  of  swinging 
her  arms  and  holding  her  fingers  arched  ever 
so  little  outward.  As  we  strolled  through  the 
dusky  park  my  hand  touched  hers,  and  I  felt  a 
shock  as  if  I  had  brushed  against  the  sponges 
of  the  patent  electric  battery  which  "The 
Youth's  Companion"  had  just  sent  me  as  a 
premium  for  securing  new  subscriptions, — 
but  ever  so  much  more  agreeable. 

A  moment  later  it  happened  again.  This  time 
it  seemed  as  if  our  hands  could  n't  come  apart, 
just  as  you  can't  let  go  the  sponges  when  the 
current  of  the  battery  is  on  full  strength.  I 
did  n't  dare  look  at  her,  but  pulled  my  hand 
away  as  soon  as  ever  I  could,  and  took  her 
straight  home  and  hardly  could  find  voice 
enough  to  mumble  good-bye. 

But  I  lay  awake  in  my  bed  till  after  mid- 
night, all  a-tingle  with  the  most  delicious  sen- 
sations. I  was  in  love  with  Priscilla!  Joy  and 
bliss!  But  would  she  be  "mad"  at  me  for  hav- 
ing held  her  hand  like  that?  Would  she  stop 

[111 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

our  rehearsals  and  never  take  any  more 
walks?  Abomination  of  desolation!  Thus  I  al- 
ternated between  the  crest  and  trough  of  the 
wave  until  I  fell  asleep. 

We  grown-ups  are  apt  to  smile  condescend- 
ingly over  the  puny  little  loves  of  childhood  and 
adolescence.  I  have  come  to  believe  that  this 
sort  of  sneering  is  almost  sacrilege.  I  beUeve 
that  a  cut  finger  or  a  smashed  doll  may  mean, 
at  the  moment,  as  great  suffering  for  the  child 
as  a  major  operation  or  the  loss  of  a  fortune 
may  mean  to  us  grown-ups;  and  that  one  of 
these  so-called  puppy-love  affairs  may  be  as 
ecstatic  and  terrific  and  all-absorbing  for 
adolescence  as  the  loves  of  Tristan  and  Isolde 
are  for  maturity. 

Such  was  my  inner  tumult  the  following  day 
that,  as  I  stood  waiting  on  the  corner  to  see 
whether  Priscilla  would  walk  home  from  school 
with  me  or  not,  I  felt  much  the  same  relative 
anxiety  as  a  grown  man  might  suffer  in  the  act 
of  proposing  to  Helen  of  Troy. 

When  at  last  she  actually  appeared  around 
[12] 


I    FIND    A    'CELLO    IN    THE    ATTIC 

the  bend  and  smiled  brilliantly  and  waved  her 
graceful  hand  at  me,  I  ascended  to  the  top 
story  of  a  heaven  higher  than  the  highest  sky- 
scraper in  town. 

That  afternoon  we  played  louder  and  more 
excitedly  than  ever.  I  had  the  feeling  that  I 
was  teUing  her  things  with  my  bow  that  I 
would  probably  never  dare  tell  her  with  my 
lips.  She  heard  them,  too,  for  once  when  Bill, 
her  brother,  was  not  looking,  she  flashed  me  a 
glance  so  full  of  comprehension  and  sympathy 
that  I  could  feel  it  clear  to  the  back  of  my  head 
and  then  all  the  way  down  my  spine.  It  was 
queer  how  Priscilla  always  made  me  think  of 
that  electric  battery. 

When  we  had  played  the  last  note  we  were 
thirstier  than  ever;  but  we  both  gulped  down 
our  sacramental  ice-cream  sodas,  and  hastened 
toward  the  park.  And  when  we  got  there  —  I 
do  not  know  how  I  ever  found  the  nerve  to  do 
it,  but  that  look  of  Priscilla's  had  made  me 
drunk,  I  think  —  I  took  her  hand  boldly  and 
put  it  to  my  lips. 

113] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

How  I  ever  came  to  do  that  particular  thing 
I  do  not  know.  Such  acts  of  homage  were  not 
common  in  the  school  we  attended.  It  was  an 
instinctive  gesture  of  adoration.  Priscilla  made 
one  half-hearted  effort  to  pull  it  away  —  that 
adorable,  scratched  little  hand!  And  then,  with 
a  frightened  look,  she  let  me  have  it.  Nay, 
more,  I  could  feel  it  tightening  frankly  around 
my  own  small,  ravished  fingers. 

When  I  found  how  wonderful  it  tasted  and 
felt,  and  that  it  was  returning  my  pressure,  I  was 
filled  with  a  strange  recklessness.  I  put  my  arms 
around  her  and,  mustering  all  my  faculties  — 
kissed  her,  very  reverentially  on  the  forehead. 

I  do  not  remember  that  we  said  much  for  a 
while.  We  were  both  a  little  shy  of  what  we 
had  done.  But  that  must  have  been  taken  as 
proposal  and  acceptance  on  both  sides,  for  soon 
we  sat  down  close  together  on  a  bench,  and 
stayed  there  until  it  was  quite  dark,  telUng 
each  other  what  we  would  do  as  soon  as  we 
grew  up  and  were  married. 
[14] 


I    FIND   A    'CELLO    IN   THE   ATTIC 

We  would  go  abroad  and  study  music  to- 
gether under  the  best  masters  and  become 
great  artists  and  tour  the  world  to  the  aston- 
ishment and  rapture  of  mankind.  And  some  of 
the  miUions  we  made  should  be  sent  to  Cor- 
nelius Gurlitt  as  a  present  in  gratitude  for  his 
having  written  such  music  that,  bathed  in  the 
magic  of  its  strains,  we  had  been  enabled  to  dis- 
cover our  love  for  one  another.  And  soon  we 
would  play  trios  in  public,  here  in  this  very 
town! 

This  much  we  really  did  achieve.  Borne  on 
the  wings  of  love,  our  rehearsals  went  so  bril- 
liantly that  we  resolved  on  a  pubUc  perform- 
ance in  a  few  days  at  the  High  School.  Alas!  if 
I  had  only  taken  the  supposed  rapidity  of  my 
progress  in  learning  the  'cello  upstairs,  with  a 
grain  of  attic  salt!  But  my  only  worry  was  over 
the  problem  how  to  smuggle  the  too  conspicu- 
ous instrument  to  school  on  the  morning  of  the 
concert,  without  the  knowledge  of  a  vigilant 
father.  I  did  not  feel  that  as  yet  it  was  safe  to 
make  him  my  confidant,  either  in  music  or  love. 
[15  1 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

We  decided  at  last  that  any  such  smuggling 
attempt  would  be  nothing  less  than  suicidal 
rashness.  So  I  borrowed  another  boy's  father's 
'cello  and,  in  default  of  the  printed  strip,  I  pen- 
ciled under  the  strings  notes  of  the  whereabouts 
of  G,  C,  and  so  forth,  making  G  shoot  out  the 
lip  with  extra  decision. 

Our  public  performance  was  a  succes  fou  — 
that  is,  it  was  a  succh  up  to  a  certain  point,  and 
Jou  beyond  it,  when  one  disaster  followed  an- 
other. My  fingers  played  so  hard  as  to  erase 
G's  lower  lip.  They  quite  obKterated  A,  turned 
E  into  F,  and  B  into  a  fair  imitation  of  D. 
These  involuntary  revisions  led  me  to  introduce 
the  very  boldest  modern  harmonies  into  one 
of  the  most  naively  traditional  strains  of  Cor- 
nelius Gurlitt. 

Now,  in  the  practice  of  the  art  of  music 
one  never  with  impunity  pours  new  harmonic 
wine  into  old  bottles.  The  thing  is  simply  not 
done.  Perhaps,  though,  we  might  have  mud- 
dled through  somehow,  had  not  my  violinist 
brother-in-law  elect  poked  me  cruelly  in  the 
116] 


I    FIND    A    'CELLO    IN   THE    ATTIC 

ribs  with  his  bow  during  a  rest,  and  ex- 
claimed in  a  coarse  stage  whisper: 

"Look  who's  there!" 

I  looked,  and  gave  a  gasp.  It  might  have 
passed  for  an  excellent  rehearsal  of  my  last 
gasp.  In  the  very  front  row  sat  —  father!  He 
appeared  sardonic  and  business-like.  The  fatal 
formula  seemed  already  to  be  trembUng  upon 
his  lips. 

The  remnants  of  B,  C,  D  and  so  forth  sud- 
denly blurred  before  my  crossed  eyes.  With  the 
most  dismal  report  our  old  bottle  of  chamber 
music  blew  up,  and  I  fled  from  the  scene.  The 
last  things  I  saw  were  Priscilla's  large  blue 
eyes,  in  the  depths  of  which  sympathy  strug- 
gled with  bitter  reproach, 

"My  son,  come  into  my  study!** 
In  an  ague  I  had  waited  half  the  evening  for 
those  dreaded  words;  and  with  laggard  step 
and  miserable  forebodings  I  followed  across 
the  hall.  But  the  day  was  destined  to  end 
in  still  another  surprise.  When  father  finally 

117} 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

faced  me  in  that  awful  sanctum,  he  was  actu- 
ally smiling  in  the  joUiest  manner,  and  I  di- 
vined that  the  rod  was  going  to  be  spared. 

"What's  all  this?"  he  inquired.  "Thought 
you'd  surprise  your  old  dad,  eh?  Come,  tell  me 
about  it." 

So  I  told  him  about  it;  and  he  was  so  sym- 
pathetic that  I  found  courage  for  the  great 
request. 

"F-F-Father,"  I  stammered,  "sometimes  I 
think  p'r'aps  I  don't  hold  the  bow  just  right. 
It  scratches  so.  Please  might  I  take  just  four 
lessons  from  a  regular  teacher  so  I  could  learn 
all  about  how  to  play  the  'cello?  It's  lots  more 
fun  than  the  flute." 

Father  choked  a  little.  But  he  looked  jollier 
than  ever  as  he  repUed,  "Yes,  my  son,  on  con- 
dition that  you  promise  to  lay  the  flute  entirely 
aside  until  you  have  learned  all  about  how  to 
play  the  'cello." 

I  promised. 

I  have  faithfully  kept  that  promise* 


CHAPTER  II 

I  MAKE  PROGRESS  IN  FIDDLER's  MAGIC 

ON  the  street  corner  after  school  next  day, 
I  had  another  bad  quarter  of  an  hour. 
What  would  PrisciUa  say?  Would  she  be  "mad" 
because  I  had  made  a  fool  of  myself  and  us  at 
the  concert? 

I  never  should  have  doubted  her.  She  came 
along  with  that  walk  of  hers  which  just  seemed 
to  float  and  only  touch  the  ground  sometimes, 
the  way  a  soap-bubble  with  rainbows  on  it 
floats  over  the  rug  when  you  blow  it.  As  soon 
as  she  caught  sight  of  me  she  smiled  and  waved, 
and  acted  just  as  though  we  had  never  tried  to 
play  in  pubUc  at  all.  She  began  to  talk  away 
at  a  great  rate  about  anything  and  everything 
except  the  concert.  And  once  in  a  while  the 
backs  of  our  hands  would  touch. 

Hers  felt  so  delicious  that  it  brought  a  lump 
into  my  throat  to  think  what  I'd  done  to  her 
before  everybody,  making  her  ridiculous  that 
[19] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

way.  I  began  to  stammer  out  apologies  the  best 
I  knew  how.  Priscilla  would  not  let  me  go  on. 
She  was  only  just  my  own  age.  But  that  after- 
noon there  was  something  about  her  which 
reminded  me  of  a  long  time  ago,  before  mothei^ 
died,  and  how  good  she  used  to  be  to  me  when 
I  had  fallen  down  and  bumped  my  head,  or  hit 
my  thumb  hard  with  the  hammer. 

"Never  mind  explaining,"  she  said  tactfully. 
"/  know  you'd  have  played  beautifully,  if  —  if 
—  why,  I  'd  have  done  just  the  same  if  I  'd  been 
surprised  that  way.  Maybe  you  have  what  they 
call  the  artistic  temperament.  Mother  says 
some  folks  do.  And,  anyway,  there  isn't  an- 
other boy  in  school  could  have  taught  himself 
that  much  without  his  father  knowing." 

Things  had  turned  out  well  after  all.  I 
poured  out  to  Priscilla  that  father  had  not 
minded  at  all  and  had  promised  instead  that  I 
might  take  four  lessons  from  a  real  teacher  so 
as  to  learn  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  'cello  playing. 
And  that  opened  up  such  pleasant  glimpses 
along  into  the  future  that  we  forgot  for  quite 
[  20  ] 


PROGRESS   IN   FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

a  few  minutes  the  fact  that  we  had  arranged  to 
marry  each  other  some  day,  or  even  that  we 
were  boy  and  girl. 

We  discussed  the  brilliant  careers  we  had 
mapped  out  for  ourselves  when  we  had  learned 
to  perform  even  better  than  at  present.  By  the 
time  we  reached  her  door  I  had  described  to  her 
a  complete  tour  of  the  globe  wherein  we  aston- 
ished the  natives  of  all  lands  with  incomparable 
duets  for  'cello  and  piano. 

The  selection  of  my  teacher  hung  fire  for  a 
couple  of  weeks,  during  which  time  I  went  on 
playing  Gurlitt  trios  with  Priscilla  and  Bill  and 
imagining  myself  almost  a  master  of  the  'cello 
and  falling  deeper  and  deeper  under  the  spell  of 
Priscilla. 

How  differently  would  life  have  turned  out  if 
I  had  not  had  the  deplorable  habit  of  talking  in 
my  sleep!  My  bed  was  in  the  same  room  as 
father's,  and  one  morning  I  awoke  to  find  him 
bending  over  me  and  asking: 

"What's  all  this  about  marrying  Priscilla?'* 

My  presence  of  mind  had  not  yet  waked  up 

[21] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

along  with  the  rest  of  me,  and  I  found  myself 
blurting  out  the  whole  story  of  how  much  I 
loved  the  lady  of  my  dreams  and  how  we  were 
soon  to  tour  the  world  together.  I  may  have 
given  father  the  impression  that  the  bridal  was 
to  take  place  in  a  year  at  most. 

Father  looked  thoughtful  and  said  nothing. 
But  the  next  day  he  handed  me  a  telegram  from 
my  wonderful  big  cousin  Walthers  out  in  Illi- 
nois, which  said: 

"Come  on  quick  for  long  visit.  Bring  dog- 
house. Wire  me  train  you  take." 

Now  Walthers  was  old  and  big  enough  to  be 
my  oldest  brother.  But  he  was  about  the  best 
fun  of  anybody  I  had  ever  known.  And  in  the 
light  of  my  present  enthusiasm  for  fiddling,  de- 
spite his  calling  my  precious  'cello  a  "dog- 
house," a  visit  to  him  seemed  like  a  visit  to 
paradise.  For  Walthers  was  a  passionate  ama- 
teur violinist,  with  a  large  and  benign  tolerance 
for  those  who  did  not  play  as  well  as  he  did. 

I  am  afraid  that,  for  a  time,  Priscilla  faded 
somewhat  into  the  background,  or  at  least  into 
[  22  ] 


PROGRESS   IN   FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

the  middle  distance,  of  my  consciousness. 
After  all,  why  could  not  she  come  out  to  Illinois 
to  visit  Walthers?  There  was  such  a  rush  in 
packing  up  and  making  the  train  that  there 
was  not  even  time  to  tell  her  good-bye.  I  could 
only  scribble  an  excited  letter  of  farewell  in  the 
trolley  car  and  post  it  at  the  station.  I  wrote 
that  no  earthly  event,  no  matter  how  jolly, 
could  ever  alter  my  imdying  love  for  her.  And 
I  meant  it. 

At  Walthers's  I  plunged  into  an  intensely 
musical  atmosphere.  But  at  the  very  outset  I 
had  a  severe  shock.  For  I  learned  what  real 
grown-up  chamber  music  was.  Gurlitt  and  his 
crew  fell  from  my  eyes  like  scales  and  revealed 
the  next  phase  of  musical  enjoyment.  The  con- 
viction was  born  that  once  I  could  hold  down 
a  part  in  the  trios  of  Gade  or  the  string  quartets 
of  Rubinstein  I  might  be  gathered  contentedly 
to  my  fathers  without  more  ado;  I  would  have 
warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life,  and 
could  then  anticipate  nothing  but  carrying  out 
the  ashes. 

[23] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

With  this  incentive  I  found  a  'cello  teacher 
and  unlearned  the  tennis-racquet  and  trolley- 
strap  method  with  groanings  which  cannot  be 
uttered  here;  while  ambition  was  kept  alive 
and  in  vigorous  health  by  my  cousin's  nightly 
orgies  of  chamber  music  with  players  more 
accompKshed  than  I. 

Finally  the  dreamed-of  moment  came.  I  was 
permitted  to  try  my  hand.  The  others  suffered 
uncomplainingly.  As  for  me,  from  then  on,  life 
held  a  gluttonous  measure  of  unalloyed  bliss. 
The  delights  of  that  performance  could  not 
have  been  more  thrilling  to  me  if,  with  true 
Orphic  cunning,  my  "dog-house"  had  caused 
the  dining-table  to  rustle  its  leaves  and  the  cat 
to  perform  on  the  hearth-rug  the  dance  of  the 
seven  veils.  I  could  play  the  lovely  notes  — 
most  of  them  —  loud  and  clear.  What  more 
does  the  hardened  amateur  demand  from  life? 
For  the  second  time  I  supposed  myself  a  mas- 
ter, and  was  ready  to  sing  my  Nunc  dimittis  — 
and  to  practice  cheerfully  three  hours  a  day. 

Then  I  was  taken  to  hear  a  professional 
[24] 


PROGRESS   IN   FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

string  quartet.  The  flame  of  mere  sound  and 
fury  set  for  me.  The  Kneisels  and  the  Flonza- 
leys  with  the  host  of  heaven  came.  And  lo! 
creation  widened  in  my  view.  With  amazement 
I  began  slowly  to  realize  the  subtle  potentiali- 
ties of  tone-color  and  the  delicate  fascinations 
of  dynamic-color. 

I  had  always  naively  thought  of  the  expres- 
sions "loud"  and  "soft"  in  much  the  same 
way  that  the  early  Puritans  used  to  think  of 
"evil"  and  "good."  They  were  Kke  two  neigh- 
boring squares  of  a  checker-board,  one  dead 
black,  the  other  snow  white,  with  the  sharpest 
possible  line  of  separation.  For  the  Puritans  a 
thing  was  either  absolutely  bad  or  absolutely 
good;  there  was  nothing  good  in  parts  Kke  the 
famous  curate's  egg.  Thus,  to  my  juvenile 
mind,  music  had  been  either  loud  or  soft  — 
principally  the  former.  Now  it  began  to  appear 
that  there  were  as  many  kinds  of  loud  and  soft 
as  there  were  shades  in  the  rainbow  between  red 
and  purple.  And  the  line  between  the  two  was 
scarcely  more  clear-cut  than  the  Une  between 
[25] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

the  yolk  and  the  white  of  the  curate's  egg  would 
be  if  it  were  beaten  up  into  an  omelet. 

It  dawned  on  me  that  to  most  young  ama- 
teurs pianissimo  was  an  almost  meaningless 
expression.  And  I  began  to  consider  that  musi- 
cal self-assertiveness  almost  indecent  which  fid- 
dles away  forever  with  a  noise  hke  the  sound  of 
many  waters;  and  to  wonder  why,  when  the 
average  fiddler  meets  with  the  sign  ^/p  under 
his  part,  he  is  apt  to  look  so  much  harder  at 
the  /  than  at  the  p. 

My  heart  leaped  up  in  response  to  the  team- 
work of  those  four  professional  bows  with  but 
a  single  thought,  and  to  the  technic  that  was 
such  a  matter  of  course  that  it  never  revealed 
itself,  or  the  disillusionizing  fact  that  the  in- 
sides  of  a  sheep  were  being  tickled  by  the  res- 
ined  tail  of  a  horse.  Here,  at  last,  to  set  final 
bounds  for  my  aspiration,  was  the  authentic 
oracle  of  Apollo  —  and  the  practice  hours 
aspired  accordingly  from  three  to  six. 

Of  course,  after  those  first  few  enthusiastic 
and  uncritical  years  of  daUiance  with  the  royal 
[26] 


PROGRESS    IN    FIDDLER'S    MAGIC 

sport  of  chamber  music,  I  found  myself  becom- 
ing less  and  less  easily  enthralled.  My  musical 
palate  grew  more  discriminating.  It  takes  a 
Brahms  or  a  Franck  to-day  to  brim  the  cup  of 
joy  which  a  Raflf  or  a  Rubinstein  then  sweetly 
overflowed.  As  for  those  garbled  symphonies 
and  operas  —  the  transcriptions  at  which  I  once 
fiddled  away  so  happily  and  in  such  good  faith — 
I  brand  them  now  as  "derangements"  and  had 
as  lief  perform  "  The  Messiah  "  on  a  Jew's-harp. 
Nevertheless,  as  I  look  back  through  the 
mists  of  the  Great  War  to  that  time,  three  sig- 
nificant facts  emerge.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
clear  that  I  never  would  have  persevered  in  all 
that  painful  practice  without  the  weekly  re- 
ward of  "virtuosity"  when,  every  Saturday 
afternoon,  little  Miss  Second  VioUn  and  dear 
big  Mr.  Viola  came  from  town  and  were 
rushed  out  of  their  overcoats,  and  had  their 
hands  warmed  with  jubilant  massage,  and  then 
were  plumped  down  before  the  B  flat  Mozart 
quartet  and  hardly  allowed  time  for  even  the 
most  reasonable  preUminary  caterwaulings  be- 
[27] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

fore  Walthers's  firm  command  came,  "No  ante- 
mortems!"  and  his  "one-two"  detonated,  and 
at  last  we  were  outward-bound  for  fairy-land. 

Yet  even  that  reward —  agreeable  as  it  was 
—  would  scarcely  have  kept  me  so  long  on  the 
rack  of  the  thumb-positions,  or  doubled  up  in 
the  chromatic  treadmill  of  finger  exercises,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  "far-off,  divine  event "  sym- 
bolized by  opus  59  ^  gleaming  alluringly,  far 
within  the  enchanted  castle  of  fiddler's  magic. 
No,  there  is  nothing  Uke  a  taste  of  chamber 
music  to  make  the  idle  apprentice  industrious. 
It  is  the  authentic  magic  —  the  kindly  light 
that  has  the  power  to  lead  him  o'er  musical 
moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till  the 
dusk  of  mere  finger-twiddUng  merges  into  the 
dawn  of  attainment. 

To  me  the  reward  of  industry  was  soon  to 
come.  I  was  rapidly  quahfying  for  the  practice 
of  that  most  delightful  of  all  sports,  fiddler's 
errantry. 

!  1  Beethoven's  three  string  quartets,  opus  59,  are  usually  re- 
garded by  amateur  fiddlers  as  their  extreme  ideal  limit  of  diflfi- 
culty  and  of  delight. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LADY  OR  THE  'CELLO  ? 

I  SCARCELY  know  whence  I  inherited 
my  errant  streak.  I  never  heard  of  any 
tramps,  troubadours,  gypsies,  or  buccaneers 
lurking  in  the  dense  foliage  of  the  family  tree. 
Perhaps  my  passion  for  vagabond  adventure 
is  the  obverse  of  that  instinct  which  led  so 
many  of  my  ancestors  to  go  into  all  lands  with- 
out purse  or  scrip  as  foreign  missionaries.  At 
any  rate,  before  I  had  been  a  year  under  Wal- 
thers's  roof  I  felt  the  urge  of  the  musical  vaga- 
bond seething  mightily  within  me.  I  dreamed 
long  delicious  day-dreams  wherein  I  figured 
heroically  as  a  Robin  Hood  of  the  'cello.  K 
wishes  were  adventures,  I  would  already  have 
become  a  fiddler  errant. 

I  Now,  aspiring  fiddlers  errant,  especially 
when  young,  are  apt  to  rush  in  and  occupy  the 
centers  of  stages  where  angels  in  good  and  reg- 
ular four-hours-a-day  practice  fear  to  tread, 
[  29  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

let  alone  tune  up.  One  of  my  early  vagaries  was 
a  passion  for  playing  with  those  of  my  elders 
and  betters  who  were  too  good  for  me. 

Not  long  after  discovering,  to  my  keen  dis- 
appointment, that  I  would  need  more  than  four 
lessons  to  learn  quite  all  there  was  to  know 
about  the  'cello  — .in  fact,  just  nine  months 
after  discovering  the  coJSBn  in  the  attic  —  I 
"rushed  in."  Hearing  that  "The  Messiah"  was 
to  be  given  at  Christmas,"^  I  approached  the 
conductor  of  the  orchestra  and  magniloquently 
informed  him  that  I  was  a  'celUst  and  that  I 
would  contribute  my  services  without  money 
and  without  price  to  the  coming  performance. 

With  a  rather  dubious  air  my  terms  were 
accepted.  That  same  evening  at  rehearsal  I 
found  that  the  entire  bass  section  of  the  or- 
chestra consisted  of  three  'cellos.  These  were 
presided  over  by  an  inaudible,  and  therefore 
negligible,  little  girl,  a  hoary  sage  who  always 
arrived  very  late  and  left  very  early,  and  my- 
self. I  shall  never  forget  my  sensations  when 
the  sage,  at  a  crucial  point,  suddenly  packed 
[SO] 


THE    LADY   OR   THE    'CELLO? 

up  and  left  me,  an  undeveloped  musicar Atlas, 
to  bear  the  entire  weight  of  the  orchestra  on 
one  pair  of  puny  shoulders.  Under  these  condi- 
tions it  was  a  memorable  ordeal  to  read  at 
sight  "The  Trumpet  Shall  Sound/'  The  trum- 
pet sounded,  indeed.  That  was  more  than  the 
'cello  did  in  certain  passages!  As  for  the  dead 
being  raised,  however,  that  happened  accord- 
ing to  program. 

After  this  high-tension  episode,  I  pulled  my- 
self together,  only  to  fall  into  a  cruel  and  un- 
usual pit  which  the  treacherous  Handel  dug  for 
'cellists  by  writing  one  single  passage  in  that 
unfamiliar  alto  clef  which  looks  so  much  like 
the  usual  tenor  clef  that  before  the  least  sus- 
picion of  impending  disaster  dawns,  you  are 
down  in  the  pit,  hopelessly  floundering. 

From  this  rehearsal  I  emerged  barely  alive. 
But  I  had  enjoyed  myself  so  much  more  than 
I  had  suffered  (let  us  draw  a  veil  over  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  others),  that  my  initial  impulse  to 
rush  at  sight  into  strange  orchestras  became 
stereotyped  into  a  habit. 
[31  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

My  visit  to  Walthers  had  spun  itself  out  from 
a  few  months  to  two  years,  and  had  turned  me 
into  a  semi-permanent  fixture  in  his  household. 
They  would  have  been  two  years  of  pure  de- 
light if  it  had  not  been  for  Priscilla.  I  missed 
her.  Whenever  I  heard  lovely  music  I  thought 
of  her  and  wished  she  were  in  the  next  seat, 
holding  hands  under  cover  of  the  program. 
I  knew  that  things  would  sound  twice  as  well 
if  she  were  there. 

Whenever  we  played  in  Walthers's  big  music- 
room  I  wished  she  were  sitting  at  the  piano, 
taller,  of  course,  with  a  longer,  thicker  pig-tail, 
and  a  capacity  to  accompany  most  sympatheti- 
cally everything  I  had  learned  since  we  parted. 

And  I  thought  again  how  delicious  that  first 
chord  had  sounded,  the  day  she  and  Bill  and  I 
had  met  for  our  first  taste  of  a  Gurlitt  trio. 
How  splendidly  she  did  play! 

I  grew  to  wanting  the  sight  of  her  to  such  an 

extent  that  nothing  else  mattered  much.  My 

school  work  fell  off.  I  began  to  neglect  even 

the  'cello,  and  spent  more  and  more  time  writ- 

[  32  ] 


THE    LADY   OR   THE    'CELLO? 

ing  long  letters  to  Priscilla,  and  bad  verse  in 
which  I  compared  her  to  all  the  more  desirable 
musical  deities  of  Greece  and  Rome  which  I 
had  run  across  in  the  school-books. 

Finally  I  was  allowed  to  go  home  for  a  visit. 
And  the  first  thing  I  did,  after  greeting  father, 
was  to  rush  for  Priscilla's  house.  She  came  to 
the  door  herself.  When  she  saw  who  it  was  she 
started  to  turn  pale,  but  thought  better  of  it 
and  turned  a  beautiful  pink  instead  and  drew 
me  inside  and  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck 
with  a  Kttle  squeak  of  joy. 

All  at  once  I  had  a  surprise.  I  saw  that  she 
had  grown  into  a  young  lady  in  my  absence; 
but  she  too,  strange  to  say,  had  been  faithful  — 
though  it  did  not  seem  strange  to  me  then. 

Her  hair  had  gone  up  and  her  skirts  down. 
But  when  we  set  forth  for  a  memorial  ice-cream 
soda  at  the  same  old  drug-store,  I  noticed 
with  feelings  of  adoration  I  could  not  disguise 
that  she  had  kept  the  same  floating-bubble  sort 
of  walk,  and  she  still  held  her  fingers  arched  a 
little  outwards  in  the  same  old,  inimitable  way. 
[33] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

After  the  soda  we  found  our  old  park  bench 
and  talked  plans  for  the  future  just  as  we  used 
to.  Only  the  future  seemed  so  much  nearer  now. 
We  had  only  to  finish  up  high  school  and  skim 
through  college  and  then  study  with  the  great- 
est musicians  of  Europe  for  a  few  brief  years 
before  setting  forth  together  on  that  concert 
tour  of  the  world  which  we  had  once  planned 
out  in  detail,  and  now  seized  the  opportunity 
to  shatter  to  bits  and  remould  nearer  to  the 
heart's  desire, 

"Oh,  Priscilla!''  I  cried,  hugging  her  hard  in 
just  the  old  way,  "I  can  hardly  wait  to  play 
with  you  again!  We  won't  do  trios  this  time, 
will  we?  No  third  party  need  apply,  eh?  Not 
even  Bill/* 

"I  can't  wait,  either,"  she  said  softly,  look- 
ing up  at  me  with  the  big  blue  eyes  that  had  not 
changed  a  bit. 

Then  I  told  her  about  the  lovely  new  solos  I 

had  brought  from  Walthers's  to  play  with  her. 

And  she  told  me  to  hurry  up  and  bring  them 

and  the  big  fiddle  and  myself  around  right  after 

[84] 


THE   LADY   OR   THE    'CELLO? 

dinner  and  we  could  have  the  music-room  all  to 

ourselves. 

I  scarcely  ate  any  dinner.  And,  as  soon  as 

was  decent,  I  seized  the  "dog-house"  and  the 

music  and  dashed  for  Priscilla's.  My  heart 

seemed  to  raise  itself  up  and  turn  over  with  a 

great  flop,  I  loved  her  so  as  she  stood  by  the 

piano  rustling  the  pages  of  my  new  music. 

"The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome,  't  is  we  musicians 
know,*' 

I  quoted  rapturously  into  her  little  pink  ear. 

"What's  that?'' she  asked. 

There  is  no  later  enjoyment  which  can  im- 
prove much  on  the  feeling  with  which  you  in- 
troduce your  first  sweetheart  to  your  first 
poetry-enthusiasm.  I  had  learned  about  more 
than  Beethoven  quartets  at  Walthers's.  Wal- 
thers's  wife  was  as  enthusiastic  a  poetry 
"fan"  as  my  cousin  was  a  music  "fan,"  and 
since  meeting  Priscilla  I  had  met  Browning 
and  had  fallen  hopelessly  under  the  spell  of 
his  poems,  especially  those  about  music. 

"Don't  you  know  what  that  is?"  I  de- 
[35] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

manded.  "Where's  the  one-volume  Browning? 
We  can't  go  on  with  this  till  I've  showed  you 
my  favorite  poem.  I  hope  it  will  be  your  favor- 
ite too." 

I  drew  her  down  upon  my  knee  and  read  her 
"Abt  Vogler"  while  she  ran  her  fingers  lightly 
in  and  out  of  my  hair.  Her  eyes  lighted  up  sym- 
pathetically as  I  read.  They  got  darker  blue, 
Uke  the  sea,  I  thought,  when  you  look  down 
into  a  deep  pool  from  a  big  rock  along  the 
shore. 

"That's  simply  ripping!"  cried  Priscilla. 
"That  puts  us  into  just  the  right  mood!  And 
now  we'll  begin  the  first  rehearsal  for  our  con- 
cert tour  of  the  world." 

She  went  over  to  the  piano  and  looked  again 
at  the  pile  of  music  I  had  brought.  Then  she 
gave  one  of  her  delightful,  rippling  laughs. 

"Only  think  how  we  once  loved  that  poor 
little  baby  composer  Gurlitt!  Why,  we  're  miles 
past  him  now!" 

She  sat  down  and  began  to  strum  one  of  the 
pieces  while  I  tried  to  tune  up. 
[36] 


THE    LADY    OR   THE    'CELLO? 

"Please  give  me  A,  Priscilla,"  I  begged. 

She  put  her  finger  on  the  A,  which  was  really 
an  octave  too  high  for  me,  but  would  do,  and 
immediately  returned  to  her  strumming.  I 
could  not  hear  how  to  tune  the  other  strings.  It 
was  disconcerting.  Walthers  had  all  his  pianists 
carefully  trained  to  keep  quiet  at  first  and  give 
the  fiddlers  a  chance. 

"Say,  Priscilla,''  I  said  absently,  "please 
have  a  heart." 

I  had  to  say  it  again  before  she  realized  what 
I  was  driving  at.  Then  she  stopped  at  once  and 
apologized  prettily.  As  I  twisted  the  pegs  up 
and  down,  I  noticed  something  new  about  her: 
how  stiflE  and  straight  her  back  was.  Had  I 
by  any  chance  stiffened  it  with  my  innocent 
request? 

I  felt  a  bit  embarrassed;  and  when  you  are 
embarrassed  it  is  hard  to  tune  a  'cello,  especially 
if  your  pegs  stick.  You  screw  the  strings  either 
too  high  or  too  low,  and  they  sound  horrid  as 
they  slide  rapidly  past  the  main  floor,  like  an 
elevator  in  the  hands  of  a  green  girl  on  her 
[37] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

first  day  at  work.  Perhaps  it  was  only  imagina- 
tion, but  I  thought  Priscilla  was  trying  not  to 
show  on  her  sensitive  and  expressive  Kttle  face 
just  what  she  thought  of  my  skill  in  running  a 
musical  elevator. 

We  chose  from  the  pile  of  music  the  "Medi- 
tation** from  "Thais";  and  I  importantly  gave 
her  the  signal  to  begin,  with  something  of  the 
condescending  manner  with  which  I  had  seen 
great  fiddlers  nod  to  their  accompanists  in 
public. 

The  expression  marks  on  the  music  said  to 
begin  very  softly,  and  I  did  so,  turning  over  the 
bow  so  that  only  three  or  four  horse-hairs  were 
touching  the  strings.  But  Priscilla  started  out 
playing  so  loud  that  I  could  not  hear  myself  at 
all.  And  she  could  not  hear  when  I  stopped.  I 
had  to  rap  with  my  bow  as  a  signal,  the  way  the 
conductor  of  an  orchestra  does  when  he  desires 
silence. 

"Priscilla,  dear,"  I  said,  "would  you  please 
play  soft?" 

"All  right." 

[38] 


THE    LADY    OR   THE    'CELLO? 

She  let  up  a  little,  but  so  little  that  now  I 
could  just  barely  hear  my  own  tone. 

I  stopped  again  and  touched  her  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Don't  you  see,  dear,"  I  suggested  in  a  pa- 
tient voice,  "that  the  music  is  marked  "piano ^ 
not  forte?  Let's  begin  again." 

We  made  a  fresh  start.  But,  to  my  dismay, 
even  then  Priscilla  kept  on  putting  her  back 
into  it.  That  soft  passage  sounded  as  loud  as 
the  "Anvil  Chorus"  from  "II  Trovatore."  I 
stopped  again  and  reasoned  with  her. 

"Can't  you  hear  how  loud  you're  playing, 
Priscilla.^"  I  asked  her  in  a  voice  which,  I 
swear,  was  no  more  than  beseeching.  "You're 
covering  my  tone  all  up.  Don't  you  see  that  it 
takes  all  the  fun  out  of  music  to  play  every- 
thing loud  Hke  that.^" 

A  spot  of  red  appeared  in  each  of  her  cheeks. 

"But  I  was  n't  at  all,"  she  insisted.  "I  was 
really  playing  quite  soft.  Let's  start  again." 

Once  more  the  Steinway  grand  resounded  to 
her  robust  touch  in  the  soft  passage.  She  was 
[39] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

still  putting  her  back  into  it.  I  was  by  this  time 
rather  on  edge,  so  I  thought  I  would  try  the 
effect  of  humor. 

I  took  my  bow  off  the  strings  in  the  middle 
of  a  phrase  and  said  politely: 

"Say,  Priscilla,  do  you  know  what  you  ought 
to  be  called?  From  the  way  you  play  forte  where 
it  says  piano,  you  ought  to  be  called  a  *fortist,* 
not  a  *  pianist/  Let's  begin  once  more." 

Priscilla  preserved  an  ominous  silence.  Only 
her  back  seemed  to  get  even  straighter,  and  she 
played  that  soft  passage  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  work  off  steam.  It  was  deafening. 

My  steam  suddenly  worked  off,  too. 

"Sh-sssss!''  I  exclaimed.  ''For  Heaven's 
sake,  let  up!" 

Priscilla  swung  about  on  the  piano  stool  with 
her  eyes  ablaze. 

"Oh,  I  just  hate  you!'*  she  cried  passion- 
ately. "You've  got  to  be  nothing  but  a  hor- 
rid musical  prig  out  there  at  that  cousin  of 
yours!  Go  on  back  and  play  with  him,  if  that's 
what  you  hke!" 

[  40  ] 


THE    LADY   OR   THE    'CELLO? 

My  spirit  was  roused,  too. 

"You  bet  it's  what  I  like!"  I  declared  with 
emphasis,  "And  all  this  time  I  was  thinking  of 
you  as  a  pianist!" 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  Priscilla,  bursting  into  a 
terrible  fit  of  tears,  "I  hope  I'll  never,  never  see 
you  again!" 

At  that  she  fled  upstairs,  leaving  me  to  pack 
up  my  paraphernalia  and  let  myself  out,  in 
blank,  embittered  astonishment.  I  had  not 
known  that  a  girl  who  really  loved  you  could 
act  that  way  after  a  gentle  Kttle  rebuke  —  put 
humorously,  too,  so  as  to  soften  it! .  . . 

As  I  came  away  from  Priscilla's  I  had  a  feel- 
ing that  the  world  was  at  an  end  and  that  I 
should  probably  never  smile  again.  There  was 
nothing  left  in  Ufe.  But,  as  I  began  to  put  the 
'cello  away  in  the  corner,  my  hand  seemed  un- 
willing to  leave  it  there.  I  took  it  between  my 
knees  and  began  mournfully  to  play. 

Some  disappointed  lovers  find  consolation  in 
drink,  some  in  gambling,  or  other  girls.  As  for 
[41] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

me,  I  found  it  in  fiddling.  And  as  I  fiddled, 
there  arose  a  vision  of  the  most  delectable  ex- 
istence in  the  world,  free  from  routine,  from  mo- 
notony, from  girls,  especially  those  who  pound 
the  piano  to  smithereens  —  the  glorious,  care- 
free, scintillating  kaleidoscopic  existence  of  the 
musical  vagabond.  What  were  girls  in  my  life, 
anyway?  What  need  they  ever  be  save  a  cynical 
memory? 
I  determined  to  become  a  fiddler  errant. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FIDDLERS  ERRANT 

MY  high  mood  of  scorn  for  the  sex  repre- 
sented by  Priscilla  evaporated,  as  such 
moods  must,  but  not  my  yearning  for  the  de- 
lights of  musical  vagabondage.  In  fact,  from 
that  day  on,  I  never  lost  an  opportunity  for 
fiddling  errantry.  I  had  inherited  enough 
money  from  that  forethoughtful  pubUsher,  my 
grandfather,  to  allow  me  to  travel  freely  when- 
ever I  had  a  vacation  from  school  or  college. 
And  I  spent  all  my  spare  time  roaming  to  and 
fro  and  up  and  down  seeking  what  I  might 
devour  in  the  way  of  musical  fun. 

I  found  to  my  pleased  surprise  that  the  ex- 
perienced amateur  fiddler  may  wander  where 
he  will,  and  always  be  sure  of  a  welcome.  His 
talent  is  bound  to  add  a  sparkle  of  romance  — 
real  or  potential  —  to  what  might  otherwise 
turn  out  to  be  a  hopelessly  dull  pilgrimage. 
Play  where  you  please,  you  never  can  tell 
[43] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

what  friend-ever-after  may  not  come  rushing 
up  to  you  afterwards  with  glowing  face  and 
outstretched  hand  to  announce  himself.  Or, 
you  may  freely  take  the  initiative  yourself.  (I 
understand  that  my  father,  when  he  was  still 
a  college-boy,  first  beheld  my  mother  during 
an  impromptu  musical  lark,  and  made  a  bee- 
line  for  her  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  solo.) 
You  never  can  tell,  as  you  bear  your  precious 
fiddle  through  the  streets,  what  magic  case- 
ment may  not  open  on  the  foam  (if  only  of 
near-beer),  and  what  faery  hand  may  not 
beckon  you  within  to  do  the  one  thing  needful 
to  opus  59,  or  draw  a  vaUant  bow  in  the  battle 
of  Schumann  Quintet. 

Later  on  I  found  that  this  sparkle  of  romance 
was  particularly  brilliant  and  satisfying  in 
really  musical  countries  where  every  tenth 
house  holds  a  devotee  ready  to  welcome  a 
brother  chamber  musician  with  open  arms.  In 
Edward  Everett  Hale's  famous  story  the  be- 
lated traveler  in  the  hostile  country-side  had 
merely  to  murmur  *'In  His  Name,''^and  hos- 
[  44  ] 


FIDDLERS    ERRANT 

pitable  hearths  blazed  for  him  like  magic.  But 
in  certain  far-away  musical  towns,  if  you  are  a 
thoroughbred  fiddler  errant,  you  need  not  say 
a  word.  You  have  merely  to  pucker  your  lips 
and  whistle  some  theme  from  opus  59.  As  for 
such  towns,  however,  candor  obliges  me  to  ad- 
mit at  once  that  I  never  quite  succeeded  in 
running  them  to  earth.  Next  year  I  fully  expect 
to.  I  fancy  they  lie  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Carcassonne. 

As  a  fiddler  errant  I  foimd  that  traveling 
with  a  'cello  is  not  all  beer  and  skittles.  It  is 
almost  as  good  —  and  almost  as  bad  —  as 
travehng  with  a  child.  It  helps  you,  for  exam- 
ple, in  cultivating  friendly  relations  with  fellow 
passengers.  Suppose  there  is  a  broken  wheel,  or 
the  engineer  is  waiting  for  Number  26  to  pass, 
or  you  are  stalled  for  three  days  in  a  blizzard  — 
what  more  jolly  than  to  undress  your  'cello  and 
play  each  of  those  present  the  tune  he  would 
most  like  to  hear,  and  lead  the  congregational 
singing  of  "Dixie,"  "Old  Black  Joe,"  "Drink 
to  me  only,"  and  "Home,  Sweet  Home"?  A 
[45] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

fiddle  may  even  make  tenable  one  of  those  rail- 
way junctions  which  Stevenson  cursed  as  the 
nadir  of  intrinsic  uninterestingness. 

But  this  is  merely  the  bright  side.  In  some 
ways  traveling  with  a  'cello  is  as  uncomfortable 
as  travehng,  not  only  with  a  baby,  but  with  a 
donkey.  Unless,  indeed,  you  have  an  instru- 
ment with  a  convenient  hinged  door  in  the  back 
so  that  you  may  pack  it  full  of  pyjamas,  col- 
lars, brushes,  manuscripts,  and  so  forth,  thus 
dispensing  with  a  bag;  or  unless  you  can  take 
oflf  its  top  and  use  the  instrument  as  a  canoe 
on  occasion,  a  'cello  is  about  as  inconvenient  a 
traveling  companion  as  the  corpse  in  Steven- 
son's tale,  which  would  insist  on  getting  into 
the  wrong  box. 

Some  idea  of  the  awkwardness  of  taking  the 
'cello  along  in  a  sleeping-car  may  be  gathered 
from  its  nicknames.  It  is  called  the  "bull- 
fiddle."  It  is  called  the  "dog-house."  But,  un- 
like either  bulls  or  kennels,  it  cannot  safely  be 
forwarded  by  freight  or  express.  The  formula 
for  Pullman  travel  with  a  'cello  is  as  follows. 
[  46  ] 


FIDDLERS    ERRANT 

First  ascertain  whether  the  conductor  will  allow 
you  aboard  with  the  instrument.  If  not,  try  the 
next  train.  When  successful,  fee  the  porter 
heavily  at  sight,  thus  softening  his  heart  so 
that  he  will  assign  the  only  spare  upper  berth 
to  your  baby.  And  warn  him  in  impressive 
tones  that  the  instrument  is  priceless,  and  on 
no -account  to  touch  it.  You  need  not  fear 
thieves.  Sooner  than  steal  a  'cello,  the  light- 
fingered  would  button  his  coat  over  a  baby 
white-elephant  and  let  it  tusk  his  vitals. 

I  have  cause  to  remember  my  first  and  only 
hoKday  trip  with  the  Princeton  Glee,  Mando- 
lin, and  Banjo  Clubs,  the  year  after  my  quar- 
rel with  Priscilla.  My  function  being  to  play 
solos  and  to  assist  the  MandoUn  Club,  I  de- 
manded for  the  'cello  an  upper  berth  in  the  spe- 
cial car.  But  I  was  overwhelmed  with  howls  of 
derision  and  assurances  that  I  was  a  very  fresh 
freshman  indeed.  The  first  night  my  instru- 
ment reposed  in  some  mysterious  recess  under 
a  leaky  cooler,  where  all  too  much  water  fiowed 
imder  its  bridge  before  the  dawn.  The  second 
[47] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

night  it  was  compressed  into  a  straight  and 
narrow  closet  with  brushes  and  brooms,  whence 
it  emerged  with  a  hollow  chest,  a  stoop,  a  con- 
sumptive quality  of  voice,  and  the  malady- 
known  as  compressio  pontis.  Thereafter  it  oc- 
cupied the  same  upper  with  me.  Twice  I  over- 
lay it,  with  well-nigh  fatal  consequences. 

Short-distance  travel  with  a  'cello  is  not 
much  more  agreeable.  In  trolleys  you  have  to 
hold  it  more  deKcately  than  any  babe,  and  be 
ready  to  give  a  straight-arm  to  any  one  who 
lurches  in  your  direction,  and  to  raise  it  from 
the  floor  every  time  you  jolt  over  cross-tracks 
or  run  over  pedestrians,  for  fear  of  jarring  the 
delicate  adjustment  of  the  sound-post.  As  for  a 
holiday  crush  downtown,  the  best  way  to  ne- 
gotiate it  with  a  'cello  is  to  fix  the  sharp  steel 
end-pin  in  place,  and  then,  holding  the  instru- 
ment horizontally,  impale  those  who  seem 
most  likely  to  break  its  ribs. 

After  my  full  share  of  such  experiences,  I 
learned  that  if  you  are  a  fiddler  errant,  it  is 
better  to  leave  your  instrument  at  home  and 
[  48  ] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

live  on  the  country,  as  it  were,  trusting  to  the 
fact  that  you  can  beg,  borrow,  or  rent  some 
kind  of  fiddle  and  of  chamber  music  almost 
anywhere,  if  you  know  how  to  go  about  it. 

Only  don't  try  it  in  Sicily! 

During  one  long  vacation  I  had  buried  the 
fiddler  in  the  errant  pure  and  simple,  when,  one 
sunset,  across  a  gorge  in  Monte  Venere,  my 
first  strain  of  Sicilian  music  floated,  to  re- 
awaken in  me  all  the  primeval  instincts  of  the 
musical  adventurer.  The  melody  came  from 
the  reed  pipe  of  a  goatherd  as  he  drove  his 
flock  down  into  Taormina.  Such  a  pipe  was 
perhaps  to  Theocritus  what  the  fiddles  of 
Stradivarius  are  to  us.  It  was  pleasant  to 
imagine  that  this  goatherd's  music  might  pos- 
sibly be  the  same  that  used  to  inspire  the  ten- 
derest  of  Sicilian  poets  twenty-three  hundred 
years  ago. 

Piercingly  sweet,  indescribably  pathetic,  the 
melody  recalled  the  Largo  in  Dvorak's  "New 
World  Symphony."  Yet,  there  on  the  moun- 
tain-side, with  iEtna  rosy  on  the  right,  and  the 
[  49  1 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

purple  Mediterranean  shimmering  far  below, 
the  voice  of  the  reed  sounded  more  divine  than 
any  English  horn  or  Boehm  flute  I  had  ever 
heard  singing  in  the  depths  of  a  modern  or- 
chestra. And  I  began  to  doubt  whether  music 
was  so  completely  a  product  of  the  last  three 
centuries  as  it  purported  to  be. 

But  that  evening,  when  the  goatherd^  en- 
snared by  American  gold,  turned  himself  into 
a  modern  chamber  musician  in  my  hotel  room, 
I  regained  poise.  Removed  from  its  properly 
romantic  setting,  like  seaweed  from  the  sea, 
the  pastoral  stop  of  Theocritus  became  unmis- 
takably a  penny  whistle,  with  an  intonation  of 
the  penny  whistle's  conventional  purity.  My 
captured  Strephon  seemed  to  realize  that  the 
environment  was  against  him  and  that  things 
were  going  "contrairy";  for  he  refused  to  ven- 
ture on  any  of  the  soft  Lydian  airs  of  Monte 
Venere,  and  confined  himself  strictly  to  taran- 
tellas, native  dances,  which  he  played  with  a 
magnificent  feehng  for  rhythm  (if  not  for  in- 
tuneness)  while,  with  a  pencil,  I  caught  —  or 
[  50  ] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

muffed  —  them  on  the  fly.  One  was  to  this 
effect: 


Presto  vivace 


i 


fc^ 


^ 


H^^ 


?5 


Da  Capo,  al  Fine 

I      I 


l£ 


-»— # 


Cf  V  J  ij 


While  this  was  going  on,  a  chance  hotel  ac- 
quaintance dropped  into  the  room  and  revealed 
himself  as  a  professor  by  explaining  that  the 
tarantella  was  named  for  its  birthplace,  the  old 
[51] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Greek  city  of  Taranto  over  yonder  in  the  heel 
of  the  Italian  boot;  that  dancing  it  was  once 
considered  the  only  cure  for  the  maddening 
bite  of  the  spider  known  as  the  Lycosa  Taran- 
tula; and  that  some  of  the  melodies  our  goat- 
herd was  playing  might  possibly  be  ancient 
Greek  tunes,  handed  down  traditionally  in 
Taranto,  and  later  dispersed  over  Calabria  and 
Sicily. 

This  all  sounded  rather  academic.  But  his 
next  words  sent  the  little  professor  soaring  in 
my  estimation.  He  disclosed  himself  as  a  fiddler 
errant  by  wistfully  remarking  that  all  this 
made  him  long  for  two  things:  his  violin,  and  a 
chance  to  play  trios.  Right  heartily  did  I  intro- 
duce myself  as  ^cellist  errant  at  his  service.  We 
knew  a  splendid  pianist  in  the  hotel,  and  de- 
cided to  visit  Catania  to  scout  for  fiddles  and 
music.  We  thought  we  would  look  for  the  mu- 
sic first. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  we  invaded  the 
largest  music  store  in  Catania.  Did  they  have 
trios  for  violin,  violoncello,  and  piano?  "Cer- 
[  52  ] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

tainly !"  We  were  shown  a  derangement  of  "La 
Somnambula  "  for  violin  and  piano,  and  another 
for  'cello  and  piano.  If  we  omitted  one  of  the 
piano  parts,  we  were  assiu'ed,  a  very  beautiful 
trio  would  result,  as  surely  as  one  from  four 
makes  three. 

Finding  us  hard  to  please,  the  storekeeper 
referred  us  to  the  conductor  of  the  Opera,  who 
offered  to  rent  us  all  the  standard  works  of 
chamber  music.  The  "trios'*  he  offered  us 
turned  out  to  be  elementary  pieces  labeled 
"For  Piano  and  Violin  or  'Cello."  But  nothing 
we  could  say  was  able  to  persuade  our  con- 
ductor that  "or"  did  not  mean  "and."  To 
this  day  I  feel  sure  that  he  is  ready  to  de- 
fend his  interpretation  of  this  word  against  all 
comers. 

We  turned  three  more  music  stores  upside 
down  and  had  already  abandoned  the  hunt  in 
despair  when  we  discovered  a  fourth  in  a  nar- 
row side  street.  There  were  only  five  minutes  in 
which  to  catch  the  train;  but  in  thirty  seconds 
we  had  unearthed  a  genuine  piece  of  chamber 
[  53  I 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

music.  Hallelujah!  it  was  the  finale  of  the  first 
Beethoven  trio! 

Suddenly  the  oil  of  joy  curdled  to  mourning. 
The  miserable  thing  was  an  arrangement  for 
piano  solo!  We  left  hurriedly  when  the  proprie- 
tor began  assuring  us  that  the  original  effect 
would  be  secured  if  the  piano  was  doubled  in 
the  treble  by  the  violin  and  in  the  bass  by  the 
'cello. 

This  piano  solo  was  the  nearest  approach  to 
chamber  music  that  we  could  find  in  the  island 
of  Trinacria.  But  afterwards,  recollecting  the 
misadventiu'e  in  tranquilKty,  we  concluded 
that  it  was  as  absurd  to  look  for  chamber  music 
in  Sicily  as  to  look  for  a  Masefield  sonnet 
among  the  idylls  of  Theocritus. 

Until  I  graduated  from  Princeton,  I  had 
found  my  happiest  hunting-grounds,  as  a  musi- 
cal vagabond,  abroad  in  the  vacations.  Then 
suddenly  fiddler's  luck  seemed  to  change  and 
become  more  of  a  native  product.  The  very  first 
week  I  went  to  live  in  New  York  I  met  in  upper 
Broadway,  of  all  places,  with  the  sort  of  adven- 
[54] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

ture  that  figures  in  the  fondest  dreams  of  fid- 
dlers errant.  I  had  strolled  into  the  nearest 
hotel  to  use  the  telephone.  As  I  passed  through 
the  restaurant,  my  attention  was  caught  by  a 
vaguely  famiUar  strain  from  the  musicians* 
gallery.  Surely  this  was  unusual  spiritual  prov- 
ender to  offer  a  crowd  of  typical  New  York 
diners!  More  and  more  absorbed  in  trying  to 
recognize  the  music,  I  sank  into  an  armchair  in 
the  lobby,  the  telephone  quite  forgotten.  The 
instruments  were  working  themselves  up  to 
some  magnificent  cKmax,  and  working  me  up 
at  the  same  time.  It  began  to  sound  more  and 
more  like  the  greatest  of  all  music  —  the  musi- 
cian's very  holiest  of  hoKes.  Surely  I  must  be 
dreaming!  My  fingers  crooked  themselves  for 
a  pinch.  But  just  then  the  unseen  instruments 
swung  back  into  the  great  opening  theme  of 
the  Brahms  piano  quartet  in  A  major.  Merciful 
Heavens!  A  Brahms  quartet  in  Broadway? 
Pan  in  Wall  Street?  Silence.  With  three  jumps 
I  was  up  in  the  little  gallery,  wringing  the 
hands  of  those  performers  and  calling  down 
[55] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

blessings  upon  their  quixotism  as  musical  mis- 
sionaries. "  Missionaries?"  echoed  the  leader  in 
amusement.  "Ah,  no.  We  could  never  hope  to 
convert  those  down  there."  He  waved  a  scorn- 
ful hand  at  the  consumers  of  lobster  below. 
"Now  and  then  we  play  Brahms  just  in  order 
that  we  may  save  our  own  souls."  The  'cellist 
rose,  saluted,  and  extended  his  bow  in  my 
direction,  Uke  some  proud  commander  surren- 
dering his  sword.  "Will  it  please  you,"  he 
inquired,  "to  play  the  next  movement?"  It 
pleased  me. 

Scene  :  a  city  composed  of  one  store  and  three 
houses,  on  the  shores  of  Newfoundland. 

Time:  one  of  those  times  when  a  fellow  needs 
a  friend — when  he  is  in  a  stem,  strange  land 
on  pleasure  bent  —  and  has  to  have  a  check 
cashed.  I  do  not  know  why  it  is  that  one  always 
runs  out  of  ready  money  in  Newfoundland. 
Perhaps  because  salmon  flies  are  such  fleeting 
creatures  of  a  day  that  you  must  send  many 
postal  orders  to  St.  John's  for  more.  Perhaps 
[56] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

because  the  customs  oflScials  at  Port  au 
Basques  make  you  deposit  so  much  duty  on 
your  fishing  tackle.  At  any  rate,  there  I  was 
penniless,  with  the  biu'ly  storekeeper  scowKng 
in  a  savage  manner  at  my  check  and  not  know- 
ing at  all  whether  to  take  a  chance  on  it.  Finally 
he  thought  he  would  not,  but  conceded  that  I 
might  spend  a  night  under  his  roof,  as  there 
was  really  nowhere  else  to  go. 

At  this  pass  something  made  me  think  of  the 
art  of  music.  Perhaps  it  was  the  parlor  piano 
which,  when  new,  back  in  the  stone  age,  had 
probably  been  in  tune.  I  inquired  whether  there 
were  any  other  instruments.  The  wreckage  of 
a  violin  was  produced.  With  two  pieces  of 
string  and  a  table  fork  I  set  up  the  prostrate 
sound-post.  I  glued  together  the  bridge  and 
put  it  in  position.  The  technic  of  the  angler 
proved  helpful  in  splicing  together  some 
strange-looking  strings.  The  A  was  eked  out 
with  a  piece  of  salmon  leader,  while  an  old 
mandolin  yielded  a  wire  E. 

When  all  was  at  last  ready,  a  fresh  difficulty 
157] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

occurred  to  me.  The  violin  was  an  instrument 
which  I  had  never  learned  to  play!  But  neces- 
sity is  the  mother  of  pretension.  I  thought  of 
that  check.  And  placing  the  small  fiddle  care- 
fully between  my  knees,  I  pretended  that  it 
was  a  'cello. 

So  the  daughter  of  the  house  seated  herself 
at  the  relic  of  the  stone  age,  and  we  had  a  con- 
cert. Newfoundland  appeared  not  to  be  over- 
finicky  in  the  matter  of  pitch  and  tone-quality. 
And  how  it  did  enjoy  music!  As  the  audience 
was  of  Scotch-English-Irish  descent,  we  ren- 
dered equal  parts  of  "Comin'  Through  the 
Rye,"  "God  Save  the  King,"  and  "Kathleen 
Mavourneen."  Then  the  proprietor  requested 
the  Sextet  from  "Lucia."  While  it  was  forth- 
coming he  toyed  furtively  with  his  bandana. 
When  it  ceased  he  encored  it  with  all  his  might. 
Then  he  slipped  out  storewards  and  presently 
returned  with  the  fattest,  blackest,  most  for- 
midable-looking cigar  I  ever  saw,  which  he 
gravely  proffered  me. 

"We  Uke,"  he  remarked  in  his  quaint 
[58] 


FIDDLERS   ERRANT 

idiom,  "to  hear  music  at  scattered  times."  He 
was  trying  to  affect  indifference.  But  his  gruff 
voice  wavered,  and  I  knew  then  that  music 
hath  charms  to  cash  the  savage  check. 

All  these  adventures  happened  back  in  that 
incredibly  quiet  time  before  the  Great  War.  I 
then  thought  that  I  had  drained  the  enchanted 
cup  of  fiddler's  magic  to  the  lees.  Little  did  I 
suspect  that  the  best  was  yet  to  come. 

Since  then  experience  has  roughly  demon- 
strated to  my  entire  satisfaction  that  nothing 
offers  a  more  effective  contrast  to  the  precari- 
ously snatched  pleasures  of  the  musical  vaga- 
bond than  a  vigorous  war  which  keeps  one 
completely  occupied  most  of  the  time  in  highly 
unmusical  pursuits.  It  is  like  the  raw  oatmeal 
which  the  sophisticated  epicure  swallows  in 
order  to  clear  his  palate  for  an  entire  appreci- 
ation of  the  dehciousness  of  the  subsequent 
ortolan's  tongue.  Now,  though  such  epicurean- 
ism was  scarcely  the  motive  that  rushed  me 
into  khaki,  the  effect  was  much  the  same. 

Before  I  come,  however,  to  the  adventures  of 
[59] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

fiddlers  miKtant,  let  me  recount  one  pre-war 

orgy  of  chamber  music  that  was  almost  as 

palatable  as  any  which  followed  it.  It  was 

one  of  those  unforeseen  little  earthly  paradises 

full  of 

"Soul-satisfying  strains  —  alas!  too  few"  — 

which  fiddlers  errant  hope  to  find  in  each  new 
spot  they  visit,  but  which  usually  precede 
them  at  the  pace  with  which  the  wily  old  safe- 
cracker, with  money  on  his  head,  precedes  the 
amateur  detective. 

The  adventure  came  to  me  in  a  California 
city,  while  I  was  gathering  material  for  a  book 
of  travel  (for,  in  order  to  keep  my  standing 
unblemished  as  an  amateur  musician  I  had 
embraced  letters  as  a  profession).  On  my  first 
evening  there  I  was  taken  to  dine  with  a  well- 
known  writer  in  his  beautiful  home,  which  he 
had  built  with  his  own  two  hands  in  the  Span- 
ish mission  style  during  the  spare  hours  of 
fourteen  years.  This  gentleman  had  no  idea 
that  I  was  to  be  thrust  upon  him.  A  friend  had 
brought  me  there  unannounced.  But  his  hos- 
{60  1 


FIDDLERS    ERRANT 

pi  tali  ty  went  so  far  as  to  insist,  before  the  eve- 
ning was  over,  that  I  must  stay  a  week.  He 
would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  And  for  my 
part  I  had  no  desire  to  say  no,  because  he  was  a 
delightful  person,  his  home  with  its  leaf-filled 
patio  was  most  alluring,  and  I  had  discovered 
promising  possibilities  for  fiddlers  errant  in 
the  splendid  music-room  and  the  collection  of 
phonograph  records  of  Indian  music  which  my 
host  had  himself  made  in  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico.  Then,  too,  there  were  rumors  of  skill- 
ful musical  vagabonds  in  the  vicinity. 

Such  an  environment  fairly  cried  aloud  for 
impromptu  fiddling.  So,  armed  with  a  note  to 
the  best  violinist  in  that  part  of  California,  I 
set  forth  next  morning  on  the  trail  of  the  ideal 
orgy.  At  the  address  given  I  was  told  that  my 
man  had  moved  and  his  whereabouts  were  not 
known.  That  was  a  setback,  indeed!  But  de- 
termined fiddlers  errant  usually  land  on  their 
feet.  On  the  way  back  I  chanced  to  hear  some 
masterly  strains  of  Bach-on-the-violin  issuing 
from  a  brown  bungalow.  And  ringing  at  a  ven- 
[61  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

ture  I  was  confronted  by  the  very  person  I 
sought. 

Blocking  the  doorway  he  read  the  note,  look- 
ing as  bored  as  professionals  usually  do  when 
asked  to  play  with  amateurs.  Just  as  he  began 
to  tell  me  how  busy  he  was  and  how  impossible, 
and  so  forth,  he  happened  to  glance  again  at 
the  envelope,  and  a  very  slight  gleam  came 
into  his  eye. 

"But  you're  not  by  any  chance  the  fellow 
who  wrote  that  stuff  about  fiddlers  in  the  *  At- 
lantic,' are  you?"  he  inquired.  At  my  nod  he 
very  flatteringly  unblocked  the  doorway  and 
dragged  me  inside,  pumping  my  hand  up  and 
down  in  a  painful  manner,  shouting  for  his 
wife,  and  making  various  kind  representations, 
all  at  the  same  time.  His  talk  gradually  sim- 
mered down  into  an  argument  that  of  course 
the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  fiddle  together  that 
very  night. 

I  asked  who  had  the  best  'cello  in  town.  He 
told  me  the  man's  name,  but  looked  dubious. 
"The  trouble  is,"  said  the  violinist,  "he  loves 
[62] 


FIDDLERS    ERRANT 

that  big  Amati  as  if  it  were  twins.  I  doubt  if  he 
could  bring  himself  to  lend  it  to  any  one.  But, 
let's  try,  anyhow/' 

He  scribbled  a  card  to  his  'cellist  friend  and 
promised,  if  I  were  successful,  to  bring  along  a 
good  pianist  and  play  trios  in  the  evening.  So 
I  set  forth  on  the  trail  of  the  Amati.  Its  owner 
had  just  finished  his  noonday  stint  in  a  hotel 
orchestra  and  looked  somewhat  tired  and  cross. 
He  glanced  at  the  card  and  then  assumed  a 
most  conservative  expression  and  tried  to  fob 
oflF  on  me  a  cheap  'cello  belonging  to  one  of  his 
pupils,  which  sounded  very  much  as  a  three- 
cent  cigar  tastes.  At  this  point  I  gave  him  the 
secret  thumb-position  grip  of  the  confraternity 
of  'cellists,  and  whispered  into  his  ear  one  of 
those  magic  passwords  of  the  craft  which  in  a 
trice  convinced  him  that  I  was  in  a  position 
to  dandle  a  'cello  with  as  tender  solicitude  as 
any  man  alive.  On  my  promising,  moreover,  to 
taxicab  it  both  ways  with  the  sacred  burden, 
he  passed  the  Amati  over,  and  the  orgy  of 
fiddlers  errant  was  assured. 
[  63] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

That  night  how  those  beautiful  Spanish 
walls  did  resound  to  Beethoven  and  Dvorak 
and  Brahms,  most  originally  interspersed  with 
the  voice  of  the  Mexican  servant  and  his  guitar, 
with  strange,  lovely  songs  of  the  aboriginal 
West  and  South  —  and  with  the  bottled  sun- 
shine of  Calif ornian  hill-slopes;  while  El  Alcalde 
Maiore,  the  lone  gnarled  tree-giant  that  filled 
the  patio,  looked  in  through  the  open  windows 
and  contributed,  by  way  of  accompaniment, 
leafy  arpeggios  sotto  voce.  And  sometimes,  dur- 
ing rests,  I  remembered  to  be  thankful  that  I 
had  once  snapped  my  fingers  at  the  howling 
wolf,  and  at  fat  pot-boilers,  while  I  scribbled 
for  the  "Atlantic"  that  Uttle  essay  on  fiddlers 
which  had  gained  me  this  priceless  evening. 


CHAPTER  V 
I  FIDDLE  DUETS  WITH  THE  TRUMP  OF  WAR 

MY  adventures  as  a  fiddler  militant  began 
with  the  extremely  musical  sound  made 
by  a  postal  card  as  it  came  clicking  through  my 
Boston  letter  slot.  Filled  with  gloomy  forebod- 
ings by  what  the  examiner  for  the  first  Platts- 
burg  Reserve  Officers'  Training  Camp  had  told 
me  a  few  days  before,  I  had  been  watching  that 
slot  with  a  ferret's  eye  and  the  mind  of  a  pris- 
oner at  the  bar  when  the  jury  is  filing  in. 

"You're  all  right,"  the  examiner  had  said, 
"except  your  occupation.  Of  course,  you  know, 
being  an  author  is  against  you." 

But  now  through  the  slot  this  magic  postal 
card,  with  its  rich,  roseate  hue,  burst  into  the 
middle  of  Blue  Monday.  The  resulting  shade 
was  a  royal  purple  of  triumph.  It  directed  me 
to  report  as  number  2056  to  the  Commanding 
Officer  at  Plattsbm-g  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Wlioop-la!  what  a  relief! 
I  65] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

Then  I  turned  the  radiant  thing  over  to  the 
address  side,  half  expecting  to  see  myself  al- 
ready called  by  the  honorable  title  of  "Candi- 
date." Name  of  a  name!  It  was  addressed  to 
another  man  I 

I  descended  into  hell,  and  there  and  then  de- 
cided to  attend  the  WiUiams  College  R.O.T.C. 
and  prepare  for  a  more  successful  assault  on 
the  portals  of  the  second  Plattsburg.  My  plan 
of  campaign  was  to  execute  a  frontal  attack  in 
person,  while  dispatching  my  grave  and  rever- 
end publisher  on  an  expedition  against  the 
Washington  flank,  heavily  armed  with  propa- 
ganda to  the  effect  that  the  present  chief  need 
of  the  infantry  was  experienced  writers. 

I  will  flit  in  an  airy  manner  over  my  musical 
activities  at  Williamstown.  You  remember  the 
one  good  witticism  of  that  arch-bromide  Philip 
Gilbert  Hamerton?  He  remarked  that  old 
writers  like  Sir  Thomas  Malory  sometimes 
condensed  a  whole  psychological  novel  into  the 
single  phrase,  "When  twenty  years  had  come 
and  gone.'*  In  like  manner  my  adventures  as 
[  66  ] 


DUETS    WITH    TRUMP   OF    WAR 

a  jBddler  militant  at  Williamstown  might  be 
summarized  in  a  still  more  compact  formula 
which  was  to  recur  so  often  in  the  reports  of  my 
scout  oflScers  in  the  trenches:  N.T.R. 

Nothing  to  report.  That  is  to  say,  unless  we 
except  those  Sunday  afternoon  groups  around 
a  certain  hospitable  piano  when  dear  old  en- 
thusiastic Walthers  appeared,  fiddle  in  hand 
and  with  double  bars  on  his  shoulders,  and  we 
played  trios,  while,  every  other  movement,  I 
was  spelled  off  by  the  nephew  who,  a  few 
weeks  hence,  was  to  hitch  his  ambulance  to  a 
star,  and  his  Ford  'cello  to  the  ceiling  of  his 
ambulance,  and  "fliv"  about  France  for  two 
years  as  an  up-to-date  good  Samaritan,  pour- 
ing in  oil  and  gas  and  fiddling  his  blesses  back 
to  life  and  the  front-line  trenches. 

Stay!  There  was  one  bona-fide  musical  ad- 
venture when  my  half-brother,  the  real  honest 
to  goodness  pianist,  came  to  spend  a  week-end 
with  me.  That  is,  every  one  swore  that  he  had 
rounded  into  a  real  pianist.  Personally  I  did  n't 
know,  for  I  had  n't  seen  more  than  twenty-four 
[67] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

hours'  worth  of  him  since  the  early  days  when  his 
musical  performances,  though  vigorous,  were 
exclusively  vocal.  I  did  n't  know,  for,  since  my 
break  with  Priscilla,  I  did  not  take  such  things 
for  granted  any  more.  I  had  been  disillusioned 
once  too  often.  I  now  had  to  be  shown. 

Well,  here  was  the  young  brother,  and  here 
was  my  own  Gaspar,the  strangest,  funniest,  old- 
est, nicest  'cello  that  had  ever  been  handed  down 
for  the  ultimate  delectation  of  that  new  world 
which  had  been  discovered  only  about  a  half- 
century  before  its  advent.' And  here  was  a  genial 
professor  with  a  succulent  Steinway  grand  set 
in  the  studio  of  his  wife  whose  paintings  glad- 
dened the  eye  whenever  the  eye  had  a  meas- 
ure's rest  or  so.  What  was  it  Browning  once 
caterwauled  about  never  the  time  and  the 
place  and  the  pianist  all  together?  We  fooled 
him  that  day. 

"Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in!" 

Here  was  the  young  upstart  of  a  brother 
whom  I  had  mislaid  all  his  life  long,  sitting 
I  68  ] 


DUETS    WITH    TRUMP   OF    WAR 

down  to  Brahms  sonatas  for  piano  and  Caspar, 
and  reading  them  at  sight  with  the  ease  and 
abandon  to  the  sound  and  sense  with  which  I 
myself  could  read  Palgrave's  "Golden  Treas- 
ury of  Songs  and  Lyrics";  —  yes,  and  with 
his  delicious  touch,  achieving  that  well-nigh 
mythical  feat  (for  a  pianist)  of  playing  softly 
when  he  encountered  the  mystic  hieroglyph  pp. 
There  was  no  question  whatever  of  caUing  this 
chap  a  fortist.  He  actually  played  the  hyphen- 
ated piano-forte,  holding  a  just  balance  on 
either  side  of  the  hyphen. 

I  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  the  joy  of  life,  and 
its  absurdity.  Here  was  I,  after  having  hunted 
all  over  creation  for  the  ideal  chamber-music 
pianist,  and  having  lound  only  two  or  three 
(who  would  never  stay  put),  stumbling  inad- 
vertently upon  one  in  the  bosom  of  the  family. 
And  here  were  we,  not  proposing  to  stay  put, 
either,  but  —  while  ravished  by  the  beauties 
of  Brahms  —  both  setting  forth  on  diverging 
paths  to  slay  as  many  of  the  compatriots  of 
Brahms  as  possible. 

[69] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

You  may  perhaps  think  it  strange,  gentle 
reader,  that  I  referred  to  my  'cello  a  moment 
ago,  as  "Gaspar."  Do  you  not  know  that  it  is 
impossible  to  have  such  a  sensitive,  human, 
strongly  individualized  pet  as  a  'cello  in  the 
home,  without  naming  it?  My  various  'cellos 
have  always  appealed  to  me  as  creatures  es- 
sentially masculine  and  have  borne  such  virile 
names  as  "Lupy,"  "Ben"  (short  for  Benvenuto 
Cellini),  and  *'Gaspar"  ("Gasp,"  for  short). 
This  is,  I  know,  contrary  to  the  procedure  of 
most  'cellists  who  call  their  instruments  their 
wives  and  christen  them  with  fluffy  names  like 
"Geraldine"  and  "Rosabelle"  and  "Flossie." 
I  even  knew  one  great,  fat,,pink-jowled  opti- 
mist who  called  his  bull-fiddle  "PoUyanna." 
But  as  for  me  I  deplore  such  effeminate  prac- 
tices as  derogating  from  the  true  dignity  of  the 
art  of  bull-fiddling. 

A  word  more  (as  the  minister  always  says 

halfway  through  the  sermon)  and  I  am  done 

with  the  militant  music  of  Billtown.  I  like  to 

remember   the   inspiriting   drum   corps   that 

[70] 


DUETS    WITH    TRUMP   OP   WAR 

marched  us  to  mess  in  the  college  commons, 
and  the  purple  patches  of  song  that  used  to 
burst  forth  before  dessert  in  praise  of  Alma 
Mater,  Lord  Jeffrey  Amherst,  and  other  deities; 
and  how  sonorously  we  were  accustomed  to 
intercede  for  those  in  peril  on  the  sea,  during 
those  hideously  early  Sunday  morning  chapels. 
But  with  even  more  appreciation  do  I  recall 
the  choral  greeting  given  by  us  of  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  Williams  Battalion  during  a  certain 
maneuver,  to  one  of  the  youngest  and  ablest 
members  of  the  mihtary  faculty.  We  called  him 
"Lieutenant,"  though  he  was  only  a  pseudo- 
shavetail,  being  still  under  the  age  of  con- 
sent on  the  part  of  Uncle  Sam.  He  had  a  short 
stature,  which  he  more  than  made  up  for  by  a 
Napoleonic  nobihty  of  attitude,  and  a  highly 
appreciated  talent  for  the  dramatic.  If  it  had 
been  at  all  in  keeping  with  the  letter  or  the 
spirit  of  Infantry  Drill  Regulations,  you  felt 
certain  that  his  favorite  posture  would  have 
been  that  one  of  the  Little  Corporal's  poses 
which  caused  the  cootie-ridden  doughboy  to 
[71] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

remark  that  now  at  last  he  understood  why 
Napoleon  was  always  photographed  with  his 
hand  inside  his  shirt. 

Well,  there  we  were,  sweltering  on  the  dusty 
road  in  a  humble  column  of  squads.  To  us  en- 
tered, galloping  with  pomp  and  circumstance, 
awe  and  majesty,  upon  a  huge,  milk-white 
charger,  the  pseudo-shavetail.  Then  suddenly, 
as  one  man,  the  entire  column  combusted 
spontaneously  into  choric  song.  And  these  were 
the  words  we  sang: 

"The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war!" 

One  final  vignette.  The  dormitories  had  been 
turned  into  barracks,  and  in  the  next  room 
lived  banjos,  banjorines,  mandolins,  mandolas, 
guitars,  guitarettes,  ukeleles,  and,  in  a  musical 
sense,  every  creeping  thing.  During  the  day 
we  were  granted  five  minutes  for  rest  between 
drill  periods.  During  the  night  we  had  an  hour 
between  lectures  and  taps.  After  meals  we  had 
at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  undiluted  re- 
pose. These  periods  were  always  employed,  to 
the  uttermost  second  by  the  comrades  next 
[72] 


DUETS    WITH    TRUMP    OF    WAR 

door,  in  laying  offerings  upon  the  altar  of  the 
modern  muse,  Polyragthymnia.  The  process 
sounded  at  times  as  though  the  altar  were  con- 
structed of  sheet  iron,  and  the  gifts  took  the 
form  of  a  varied  sheaf  of  kitchen  utensils,  let 
fall  upon  it  from  a  considerable  height. 

One  Sunday  evening  Gaspar  and  I  could  no 
longer  resist  the  siren  lures  of  Music,  Heav- 
enly Maid.  We  entered  next  door,  and  close  on 
our  heels  there  thronged  in  performers  upon 
the  flute,  harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  kazoo,  snare- 
drum,  and  all  kinds  of  music.  The  mantel- 
shelf was  replete  with  the  entire  banjo  family, 
two  deep.  The  trombonist  sat  enthroned  upon 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  Eleventh  Edi- 
tion, to  its  apparent  disadvantage. 

We  were  just  at  the  height  of  a  spirited  ren- 
dition of  "They  're  wearing  'em  higher  in 
Hawaii,"  whose  sonority  must  have  immo- 
bilized the  clock  on  the  distant  college  tower 
and  made  the  wretched  factory  children  of 
North  Adams  stir  uneasily  in  their  troubled 
sleep,  when  I  saw  a  face  peering  in  over  the 
[73] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

heads  of  all  Williamstown,  which  were  inserted 
raptly  into  the  large  window.  The  face  was 
ghastly  white.  The  eyeballs  were  well-nigh  pop- 
ping from  their  sockets.  The  whole  expres- 
sion was  one  of  terrified  stupefaction,  which 
changed  to  malevolent  comprehension  when  it 
caught  sight  of  my  own  unworthy  features. 

The  bow  dropped  from  my  nerveless  grasp. 
With  a  low  moan  of  shame  not  unmingled  with 
compassion,  I  recognized  the  distorted  visage 
of  one  of  the  most  celebrated  organists  of  New 
York  City.  As  a  music  critic  I  had  once  at- 
tacked him  for  not  being  sufficiently  high-brow. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PLATTSBURG  DEALS  WITH  THE  MUSES 

THE  citadel  at  Washington  had  succumbed 
to  the  flanking  movement  of  my  redoubt- 
able publisher.  Another  postal  had  clicked 
through  another  letter  slot,  this  time  with 
the  right  name  on  the  obverse  side,  and  here 
I  was,  at  Plattsburg,  New  York,  in  the  6th 
New  England,  Kned  up  with  my  new  com- 
rades in  company  front,  when  an  orderly  ar- 
rived with  a  dispatch  for  our  captain.  He  read 
it  and,  calKng  me  out  before  all  the  others, 
exclaimed: 

"Report  at  once  to  the  Post  Commandant!" 
Now  you  may  dispatch  a  chap  on  a  tight- 
rope reconnaissance  from  the  top  of  the  Metro- 
poUtan  Tower  to  the  top  of  the  Flatiron  Build- 
ing; or  cause  him  to  patrol  Fifth  Avenue  fronj 
Twenty-Third  to  Forty-Second  Streets  clad  in 
his  birthday  clothes,  and  he  will  feel  no  more 
uncomfortably  conspicuous  than  a  three-days'- 
[75] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

old  candidate,  not  yet  reconciled  to  the  eccen- 
tricities of  canvas  leggins,  who  should  be  haled 
without  warning  out  of  drill  formation  to  visit 
the  commandant  on  business  unspeciified. 

The  business  was  as  yet  unspecified,  but  in 
the  marrow  of  my  bones  I  felt  what  was  up. 
The  commandant  had  discovered,  through  the 
detective  service  of  his  Intelligence  section,  the 
damning  fact  that  I  was  a  poet;  had  added  this 
up,  like  two  and  two,  to  my  being  a  vagabond 
fiddler,  and  had  decided  that  such  a  combina- 
tion could  never  make  a  doughboy.  I  was  going 
to  be  kicked  out  and  disgraced.  Shedding  my 
pack  and  Springfield,  I  advanced  toward  head- 
quarters with  inelastic  tread. 

The  portal  yawned.  I  girded  myself  together, 
stepped  inside,  schooled  my  features  to  look 
somewhat  Kke  those  of  the  Admirable  Crichton 
in  the  first  act  where  he  is  a  butler,  and  pulled 
off  a  well-nigh  perfect  textbook  salute.  The 
commandant  pulled  off  a  far  less  perfect  one, 
smiled  pleasantly,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  to  my 
utter  astonishment,  shook  hands  in  a  genial 
176] 


PLATTSBURG   AND    THE    MUSES 

manner  and  offered  me  a  chair.  This,  thought 
I  in  bewilderment,  is  not  what  any  of  the 
books  have  led  me  to  expect.  It  is  adminis- 
tering the  fatal  pill  dissolved  in  a  large,  sweet 
Martini. 

"So  you're  a  fiddler  militant,"  observed 
Colonel  Wolf.  "I  know  all  about  you.  I've  read 
your  stuflF.  Pleased  to  meet  you.  Now,  won't 
you  play  that  big  fiddle  of  yours  for  the  men 
some  night  in  our  open-air  stadium?  And  I'd 
be  glad  to  have  you  serve  on  the  Entertainment 
Committee." 

He  pressed  a  bell  and  introduced  me  to 
Captain  Baer,  his  adjutant.  (A  year  and  a  half 
later,  in  Advance  General  Headquarters, 
Treves,  Germany,  I  found  that  same  captain 
in  an  adjoining  office  with  the  buzzards  of  a 
colonel  on  his  shoulders,  while  my  old  com- 
mandant, on  the  Luxembourg  border  near  at 
hand,  wore  the  star  of  a  brigadier-general.)  I 
explained  to  the  adjutant  that  I  would  be 
glad  to  play  if  I  could  brush  aside  certain  slight 
difficulties,  which  were: 

[77] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

I.  I  was  out  of  practice,  owing  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  squads  right  and  right  shoulder 
arms. 
II.  I  had  no  music. 

III.  I  had  no  accompanist. 

IV.  I  had  no  'cello. 

Apart  from  this  I  was  quite  ready. 

The  adjutant  expressed  his  confidence  that 
I  would  easily  make  as  nought  these  trifling 
handicaps.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "America 
expects  every  man  to  do  the  impossible."  Then 
he  introduced  me  to  my  fellow  members  of  the 
Entertainment  Committee:  Candidate  Bud 
Fisher,  Candidate  Robert  Warwick,  and  others 
equally  good  and  great. 

It  next  fell  to  my  lot  to  direct  the  activities 
of  these  gentlemen  in  decorating  the  stadium 
stage  with  evergreen  branches,  to  secure  which 
we  reverted  to  type  and  became  arboreal;  and 
with  ferns,  to  secure  which  we  groveled  in  the 
thick  undergrowth  of  a  deep  swamp.  To  this 
day  I  recall  with  pleasure  the  appearance  of  a 
renowned  but  sedentary  sporting  editor  as  he 
[78] 


PLATTSBURG   AND   THE    MUSES 

swung  from  branch  to  branch,  and  that  of  a 
celebrated  but  somewhat  sybaritic  tenor  as  he 
emerged  from  the  swamp,  having  bitten  the 
muck  and  mingled  it  with  his  golden  vocal  cords. 

To  complicate  matters,  we  had  all  just  had  a 
"shot  in  the  arm"  that  noon,  which  was  taking 
with  especial  virulence.  It  was  a  sorry-looking 
crew  of  celebrities  who,  under  my  temporary 
control,  stood  about  viewing  their  handiwork 
as  exterior  decorators  and  working  their  poor 
arms  like  pump-handles  in  a  misguided  and 
vain  attempt  to  ward  off  stiffness.  I  wish  I  could 
introduce  a  snap-shot  of  them  at  this  point. 
The  reader  would  see  that,  by  some  strange 
force  of  association,  those  who  did  not  look 
like  Mutt  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  Jeff. 

It  now  occurred  to  me  that  I  must  play  in 
public  that  evening,  so  I  obtained  an  extension 
of  respite  from  squads  right,  hurried  into  the 
metropolis  and  persuaded  the  leading,  and  in 
fact  the  only,  'cellist  to  loan  me  the  leading, 
and  in  fact  the  only,  *cello  of  Plattsburg. 

I  still  remember  with  mingled  emotions  that 
[79] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

night's  performance.  Aside  from  the  fact  that 
an  icy  wind  blew  full  upon  the  ill-starred  "dog- 
house" that  I  clutched  between  my  knees,  thus 
rapidly  altering  the  pitch  of  the  strings  while  I 
played,  and  that  my  arm  was  so  stiff  from  the 
shot  and  the  subsequent  tree-climbing  and 
wallowing  that  I  could  scarce  lift  hand  to 
string;  and  that  a  laboring  freight  locomotive 
came  puflSng  and  groaning  along  on  the  tracks 
near  by  and  quite  drowned  out  the  latter  half 
of  the  tune  —  the  performance  was  fairly  suc- 
cessful in  showing  that  as  an  amateur  fiddler 
I  was  an  excellent  soldier.  For  no  performance 
could  have  failed  entirely,  with  that  radio- 
active accompanist,  Candidate  Breitenfeld, 
pushing  on  the  reins  at  the  piano  behind  my 
back  —  he  who  had  composed  "The  Last  Long 
Mile'*  only  the  day  previous,  and  had  con- 
ducted its  first  performance,  just  before  my  solo. 
Will  any  Plattsburg  man  ever  forget  the 
sings  we  had  while  waiting  for  those  sempiter- 
nal lectures?  One  dramatic  moment  comes  back 
vividly  to  mind,  when  the  entire  body  of  candi- 
[80] 


PLATTSBURG    AND    THE    MUSES 

dates  —  who  had  never  before  sung  together 
anything  more  devotional  in  character  than 
"The  Bells  of  Hell  Go  Ting-a-ling-a-ling" — 
suddenly  burst  forth  by  unanimous  telepathic 
consent  into  a  superb,  nobly  moving  rendition 
of  "O  Come  All  Ye  Faithful."  Then,  without 
drawing  breath,  in  an  instant  revulsion  from 
the  "Sunday  stuflf,"  everybody  roared  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs  the  somewhat  similar  tune: 

"I  was  drunk  last  night, 
I  was  drunk  the  night  before; 

Going  to  get  drunk  to-night  if  I  never  get  drunk  any 
more!" 

An  eccentric  old  party,  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
all  R.O.T.C.  men,  used  to  visit  us  once  in  a 
while  and  teach  us  to  improve  our  tones  of 
military  command  by  vibrating  our  "head 
spaces"  (presumably  the  places  where  the 
brain  ought  to  be,  but  was  n't),  and  by  holding 
our  noses  and  blowing  through  our  ears,  and 
other  devices  generally  supposed  to  be  acquired 
only  through  interminable  and  expensive 
courses  of  lessons  with  singing  teachers  whose 
[81] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

names  end  in  ini  and  elli.  This  gentleman's 
name,  however,  ended  as  soon  as  it  began. 
He  was  prosaically  but  fittingly  known  as  Mr. 
Noyes.  It  was  the  second  most  fitting  name  I 
have  ever  known.  The  first  belonged  to  a  lady 
who  weighed  five  hundred  pounds  and  rejoiced 
in  the  name  of  Madame  Hellbig.  Mr.  Noyes's 
name  was,  as  the  grammarians  would  say, 
highly  onomatopoetic,  if  one  might  judge  from 
the  volume  of  tone  he  produced  from  us  three 
thousand  candidates. 

His  methods  were  as  short  as  his  name.  Rea- 
soning from  the  swiftness  with  which  he  taught 
the  gang  "K-k-k-Katie"  and  "Keep  Your 
Head  Down,"  in  about  ten  minutes  apiece,  I 
believe  that  Mr.  Noyes  could  have  taught  us 
Cesar  Franck's  monumental  oratorio,  "The 
Beatitudes,"  in  three  sittings  —  provided,  of 
course,  that  instead  of  allowing  the  pious  words 
of  the  original  to  reveal  that  this  was  high-brow 
music,  the  fatal  fact  had  been  camouflaged  by 
translating  the  text  into  the  popular  idiom  of 
the  doughboy. 

[  82  ]    . 


PLATTSBURG   AND    THE    MUSES 

Thus,  for  example,  instead  of  **  Blessed  are 

they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted,'* 

the  candidates  would  have  lapped  up  Franck's 

soothing  strains  to  such  words  as: 

"What's  the  use  of  worrying? 
It  never  was  worth  while." 

Instead  of  the  part  about  thirsting  after 
righteousness,  they  would  have  sung  with 
enthusiasm: 

"Nobody  knows 
How  dry  I  am!" 

As  for  all  that  stuflF  about  the  peacemakers 
being  blessed,  I  think  even  that  would  have 
gone  down  if  the  last  word  had  been  taken  in 
the  French  sense  and  pronounced  hless-dyed; 
otherwise  it  would  have  had  to  be  "canned" 
as  too  pacifistic  in  tendency. 

Such  musical  low-browness  was,  of  course, 
most  deplorable,  but  I  did  not  raise  my  voice 
in  denunciation,  knowing  full  well  the  truth  of 
that  portion  of  Scripture  which  states: 

"A  prophet  is  a  loss  in  his  own  company." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  REGIMENT  BUYS  ME  A  'CELLO 

THE  months  at  Plattsburg  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  second  Heutenant*s  commis- 
sion in  the  infantry.  My  instructors  informed 
me  rather  apologetically  that  they  would  have 
given  me  a  higher  rank  if  I  had  not  been  a  fid- 
dler and  a  poet,  their  inference  being  that  hav- 
ing a  mixed  command  consisting  of  young  lady 
muses  and  young  gentleman  doughboys  is  not 
considered  the  thing  in  the  best  military  cir- 
cles. It  is  an  affront  to  the  conventions  of  the 
most  conventional  set  in  the  world. 

As  for  me,  I  was  delighted  to  get  any  com- 
mission at  all.  For  I  had  long  ago  resolved  that 
if  I  received  in  lieu  of  a  commission,  that  acrid 
and  bitter  fruit,  the  raspberry,  I  would  enlist. 
And  I  did  not  begrudge  the  handicap  of  the 
muses.  For  I  would  far  rather  be  a  gold-barred 
fiddler  militant  in  crowded  barracks  than  to 

dwell  in  the  tents  of  Colonel  X  at  Camp . 

[84] 


REGIMENT    BUYS    ME    A    'CELLO 

Colonel  X  was  our  most  celebrated  low-brow. 
He  it  was  who  scolded  his  bugle-corps  for  the 
monotony  of  their  four-noted  music.  "It's  all 
too  much  on  the  same  key,"  he  said  to  the 
leader.  "Liven  things  up  with  some  runs  and 
trills  and  flourishes.  Now  for  to-morrow  I 
want  you  to  play  *Joan  of  Arc.'" 

It  was  no  other  than  Colonel  X  who  once 
broke  up  a  rehearsal  of  his  regimental  band  by 
waving  his  arms  in  an  impressive  manner  and 
roaring: 

"Here,  what're  you  trying  to  do?" 

Leader.  "We  are  rehearsing  'The  Stars  and 
Stripes  Forever,'  sir." 

Colonel  X  (leveling  a  minatory  finger  at  the 
alto,  tenor,  and  bass  trombones).  "I  want  to 
see  those  instruments  dress  up.  Want  to  see 
those  trombone  sKdes  all  go  in  and  out  together 
in  a  military  manner!" 

On  another  occasion  this  colonel  stopped  the 
same  unfortunate  band  with  a  rough: 

"Here,  here,  what's  all  this  fooKshness?" 

Leader  (patiently).  "What,  sir?" 
[85] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Colonel  X  (withering  the  solo  trumpeter 
with  a  glare).  "Why  isn't  that  man  work- 
ing?" 

Leader.  "He  has  four  measures'  rest  before 
his  solo,  sir," 

Colonel.  "Now,  then,  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  won't  stand  for  any  more  of  this 
slacking.  Want  you  to  get  music  that  will  keep 
every  man  busy  all  the  time.  Make  'em  all 
work!  Make  'em  all  work!" 

By  good  luck  I  was  not  assigned  to  this  colo- 
nel's jurisdiction,  but  to  the  finest  regiment  in 
the  79th  Division.  The  313th  Infantry,  besides 
containing  the  best  fighting  men  in  camp,  had 
the  highest  quota  of  gentlemen  and  sportsmen 
among  its  officers,  and  the  best  band.  (This  is 
almost  invariably  the  way  every  soldier  talks 
about  his  own  outfit.) 

Our  band  was  directed  by  Louis  Fisher,  then 
an  enlisted  man,  later  a  captain  and  the  leader 
of  Pershing's  Band.  As  Regimental  Intelligence 
Officer,  I  commanded  the  first  platoon  of  Head- 
quarters Company,  which  included,  among  a 
[86] 


REGIMENT   BUYS   ME    A    'CELLO 

vast  and  heterogeneous  throng,  Fisher  and 
his  musicians. 

One  reason  why  our  music  was  so  good  was 
that  Fisher  had  an  eagle  eye  peeled  all  the  time 
for  promising  material. 

One  day  he  came  to  me  in  high  excitement 
and  said: 

"I've  made  a  wonderful  find!" 

"Where  and  what.?" 

"In  a  rifle  company.  I  know  him.  He's  the 
greatest  pianist  within  a  hundred  miles.  Came 
to  camp  two  weeks  ago,  a  raw  recruit.  They've 
had  him  out  there  on  the  parade  ground  drag- 
ging a  rifle  around  till  he's  half  dead.  I've 
asked  for  him  for  the  band,  and  got  him,  too, 
by  Jove!" 

"But  you  can't  use  a  pianist  in  the  band." 

"Yes,  but  we  can  set  him  learning  some  other 
instrument.  He's  an  all-around  musician. 
What  would  you  advise?" 

I  advised  the  oboe.  The  oboe  was  as  rare  as 
the  dodo.  Now  that  we  had  a  superfine  musi- 
cian at  our  mercy,  here  was  a  chance  to  supply 
187] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

a  long-felt  want.  So  our  pianist  was  given  an 
oboe,  and  soon  was  making  day  hideous  within 
a  radius  of  one  hundred  yards. 

That  evening  Fisher  brought  him  over  to  the 
Y.M.C.A.  hut  to  show  me  what  he  could  do.  I 
can  never  get  out  of  my  mind  how  incongru- 
ously noble  and  beautiful  was  his  rendering  of 
Chopin's  B  minor  Sonata  and  the  A  minor  Pre- 
lude and  Fugue  of  Bach,  as  it  competed  with 
the  rip-roaring  atmosphere  of  that  hut.  It  was 
as  though,  out  yonder  on  the  bayonet  course, 
some  one  had  hung  up  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles 
by  the  neck  in  one  of  the  gallows,  instead  of  the 
usual  straw-stuflFed  dummies  of  Boches,  for  the 
yelling  doughboys  to  jab  with  their  bayonets  as 
they  rushed  by.  And,  looking  somewhat  like  a 
Hermes  thus  treated,  our  pianist  rose  up  after 
finishing  the  Bach  amid  the  ribald  though  inno- 
cent whoops  of  his  fellow  doughboys,  and  de- 
clared that,  circumstances  being  what  they 
were,  he  could  play  no  more. 

Remembering  how  the  muse  had  been  pe- 
nalized at  Plattsburg,  I  had  thus  far  kept  from 
[88] 


REGIMENT   BUYS   ME   A    'CELLO 

Camp the  fact  that  I  was  a  fiddler  mili- 
tant. But  now,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  finding 
this  virtuoso  in  spiral  puttees,  the  truth  some- 
how leaked  out.  It  did  not  matter  so  much, 
however,  because  I  had  already  exchanged 
my  gold  bars  for  silver,  and  because  we  had 
no  such  low-brow  colonel  as  the  one  who  in- 
sisted that  the  diflFerent  trombone  slides  must 
all  go  in  and  out  together. 

In  fact,  our  colonel  sent  for  me  and  said  that 
he  liked  music  a  lot,  and  would  I  not  take  my 
'cello  along  over  to  France  so  that,  in  the  regi- 
ment's moments  of  relaxation,  I  might  play  for 
them  with  the  new  pianist? 

I  said  I  would  be  glad  to  play  for  them  if 
it  would  not  be  held  against  me  and  put  down 
as  a  large  black  blot  on  my  eflBciency  record; 
but  that  my  'cello  was  nearly  as  old  as  Colum- 
bus, and  that  such  a  fragile  and  temperamen- 
tal shell  would  stand  about  as  much  chance 
in  the  A.E.F.  as  a  butterfly  in  a  hamburg  steak 
machine. 

"All  right,"  said  the  colonel,  "then  we'll  buy 
[89] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

you  a  good,  strong,  tough,  armor-plated  'cello 
out  of  the  regimental  fund.  We've  got  to  have 
that  music." 

So  next  day  Fisher  and  I  went  to  the  nearest 
city  and  bought  the  regiment  a  'cello,  quarter- 
master-proof as  the  im-cleft  rock  of  ages,  yet 
sweet  and  mellow  withal.  Very  fittingly  we 
were  helped  by  a  gentleman  who  was  a  good 
amateur  performer  upon  the  flute,  and  had  been 
a  close  friend  of  that  flute-playing  hero  of  my 
boyhood,  the  noble  poet  and  musician  militant, 
Sidney  Lanier. 

I  saw  this  patriotic  amateur  draw  the  violin 
dealer  aside  and  whisper  to  him  in  an  authori- 
tative manner.  And  I  have  always  attributed 
to  this  whispered  conversation  the  fact  that 
our  available  three  himdred  dollars  bought  a 
'cello  which  seemed  to  me  worth  more  like  five 
hundred,  together  with  a  good  bow,  an  almost 
bomb-proof  case,  and  enough  strings,  glue, 
clamps,  sound-post  setters,  and  extra  bridges 
and  tail-piece  gut  to  guard  against  most  even- 
tualities in  the  S.O.S.,  except  what  the  insur- 
[90] 


REGIMENT   BUYS   ME   A    'CELLO 

ance  policies  so  elegantly  call  "foreign  ene- 
mies and  civil  commotions." 

Alas  for  the  best-laid  plans  of  fiddlers  mili- 
tant! The  bomb-proof  ^cello  arrived  at  camp 
along  with  our  embarkation  orders.  There  was 
no  time  to  play  it  to  the  regiment  —  only  to 
nail  it  up  in  its  immense  coflSn  along  with  half 
of  my  musical  library.  With  the  rest  of  the 
heavy  freight,  it  set  forth  for  France  a  few 
days  ahead  of  us.  As  for  my  great  pianist,  he 
was  transferred,  before  we  sailed,  to  another 
regiment  which  promised  to  commission  him 
as  band  leader,  but,  having  extorted  him  from 
us  by  this  promise,  kept  him  an  enlisted  man. 

As  long  as  I  am  telling  how  things  turned 
out,  let  me  relate  the  poetic  justice  which  over- 
took G)lonel  X  for  his  lack  of  appreciation  of 
the  art  of  music.  I  shall  anticipate  and  show 
him  in  action.  He  was  a  brave  man  and  ex- 
posed himself  recklessly  until,  in  a  crisis  of  the 
Meuse-Argonne  oflFensive,  a  piece  of  shrapnel 
came  and  wounded  him  severely  in  the  can- 
teen. Feeling  his  Ufe-blood  chilling  in  his  veins 
1911 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

and  gushing  rapidly  down  his  limb,  he  raised 
a  frantic  howl  of  "Tourniquet!  Tourniquet!" 
First  aid  appeared,  examined  the  colonel,  and 
pointed  out  to  him  that  the  skin  had  not  even 
been  broken  by  the  projectile. "  Makes  no  differ- 
ence!" cried  Colonel  X.  "Get  to  work  here!  I 
won't  have  any  of  this  slacking!  Tourniquet! 
Tourniquet!" 

The  tourniquet  was  applied  by  the  grinning 
medical  staff.  It  was  applied  with  considerable 
force,  however;  and  after  a  time,  when  all  the 
water  had  been  shed  (for  he  had  but  one  can- 
teen to  give  for  his  country),  the  sufferer  de- 
cided to  take  his  chances  without  the  aid  of 
science.  Not  long  after.  Colonel  X  was  relieved 
from  duty  on  the  field  of  honor  for  incompe- 
tence. 

To  return  to  the  regimental  'cello.  It  was 
snatched  from  me  more  utterly  than  my  pian- 
ist. This  time,  however,  I  suspect  the  Boche. 
It  was  seen  to  leave  these  shores.  So  far  as  can 
be  learned,  it  never  landed  in  France.  There  is, 
of  course,  a  chance  that  it  may  have  been  di- 
[  92  ] 


REGIMENT    BUYS    ME    A    'CELLO 

verted  to  some  other  route.  At  this  very  mo- 
ment it  may  be  the  soul  of  the  musical  life  of 
the  bazaars  of  Bagdad,  or  be  brightening  the 
long  winter  nights  of  Archangel.  But  my  per- 
sonal belief  is  that  it  was  submarined. 

Even  if  submarined,  though,  it  would  have 
floated,  unless  weighed  down  too  much  by  all 
that  heavy  sonata  music  (which,  by  the  way, 
the  Reparations  Board  refuses  to  recompense 
me  for,  because  I  never  can  seem  to  get  all  the 
semicolons  in  the  right  place  in  my  vast  red- 
taped  acreage  of  claim-sheets).  I  never  look  out 
of  my  Larchmont  window  across  Long  Island 
Sound  without  scanning  the  oflSng  for  a  'cello 
cast  upon  the  waters.  And  I  always  hope  that 
the  glue  which  was  a  part  of  its  trousseau,  is 
insoluble  in  brine.  If  it  liquefied  and  ran  all 
over  the  rock  of  ages,  it  would  make  an  awful 
mess! 

Too  bad,  even  for  purely  miHtary  reasons, 
that  the  rock  of  ages  should  have  been  sub- 
marined! Iq  open  warfare,  for  example,  a  'cello 
would  be  invaluable.  I  can  imagine  few  more 
[93] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

eflFective  weapons.  Getting  out  the  long,  sharp 
end-pin,  aflSxing  it  like  a  bayonet,  and  bearing 
resolutely  down  upon  the  foe,  you  would  trans- 
fix with  astonishment  every  Him  that  beheld 
you  until  you  had  transfixed  him  with  the 
end-pin. 

Alas  for  all  these  vain  imaginings!  In  my  in- 
most heart  I  fear  that  the  rock  of  ages  is  no 
more.  But  my  chief  regret  is  that  it  had  to 
perish  so  fruitlessly.  Now,  if  that  'cello  had 
only  been  submarined  along  with  Colonel  X, 
and  had  gone  down  under  him  irrevocably 
while  he  was  using  it  as  a  canoe  and  thundering 
to  his  staflf  for  a  Kfe-preserver,  I  should  be  re- 
signed to  the  sacrifice.  The  rock  of  ages  'cello 
would  have  perished  in  a  worthy  cause. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

I  MISLAY  THE  BAND 

MY  first  adventure  in  France  was  a  mu- 
sical one.  From  the  capacious  maw  of 
the  Leviathan  we  were  disgorged,  like  Jonah 
from  the  whale,  upon  the  shores  of  Brest. 
En  route  to  a  place  humorously  called  the 
"Rest  Camp,"  we  were  approached  by  the  first 
detachment  of  the  ten  million  ingratiating 
young  innocents  who  were  destined,  in  the 
ensuing  months,  to  grasp  our  hands  and  de- 
mand ^'une  cigarette  pour  papa  a  Verdun.^^  As 
we  marched,  the  girls  and  women  smiled  and 
waved  and  tossed  flowers  to  us.  The  men, 
mostly  cripples,  saluted.  It  was  altogether  the 
most  inspiring  walk  I  had  ever  taken. 

By  supper-time  we  made  the  "Rest  Camp.'* 
This  was  a  very  small  enclosure  of  the  sacred 
but  liquid  soil  of  France,  roofed  by  a  desper- 
ately weeping  heaven.  The  enlisted  men  threw 
up  their  pup  tents  and,  in  default  of  supper, 

[95] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

slumbered  heavily.  We  ofBcers  had  an  excel- 
lent chance  to  get  near  to  nature's  heart.  For 
our  tents,  bedding-rolls,  and  hand-baggage, 
though  oflScially  present,  did  not  appear  until 
late  the  following  day. 

About  the  time  they  appeared  our  colonel 
sent  for  me  and  thrust  a  wad  of  francs  into  my 
hand. 

"Lieutenant,  we  entrain  at  five-thirty  to- 
morrow morning.  You  will  purchase  five  rations 
for  each  of  the  headquarters  oflScers.  The  regi- 
mental band  is  still  probably  on  board  the 
Leviathan.  You  will  see  that  it  entrains." 

As  I  hurried  down  to  the  port  I  realized  that 
I  was  in  a  dilemma.  If  I  went  out  at  once  in 
person  to  get  the  band,  all  the  stores  would  be 
closed  before  I  could  return  and  buy  food  for 
the  long  journey  that  lay  ahead  of  us.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  bought  the  provisions  first,  I 
might  miss  the  band.  Whichever  I  did  I  was 
almost  sure  to  go  wrong. 

By  good  luck  I  found,  almost  at  once,  the 
skipper  of  the  oflScial  lighter,  and  sent  him  out 
[96] 


I   MISLAY   THE   BAND 

to  the  Leviathan  with  strict  instructions  to 
bring  me  back  that  band.  Then  I  got  a  detail 
of  doughboys  and  with  them  raced  for  the 
shops  against  closing  time.  A  strange  picture 
my  detail  must  have  made  as  they  stumbled 
back  through  the  inky  streets  of  Brest.  Their 
arms  were  heaped  high  with  figs  and  huge 
bunches  of  grapes,  and  every  pocket  of  their 
blue  jeans  was  bursting  with  wine.  I  thought 
they  offered  a  fair  modern  version  of  the  spies 
returning  from  the  Land  of  Canaan.  But  I  did 
not  tell  them  that  they  looked  Kke  spies.  It 
would  have  been  bad  for  the  morale. 

At  eleven  I  met  the  returning  lighter.  No 
band!  That  skipper  vowed  they  had  taken  an- 
other hghter  an  hour  and  a  half  before,  bound 
for  a  remote  place  called  Pier  7.  Gracious 
Heavens!  It  was  a  case  of  innocents  abroad.  It 
was  a  case  of  the  Kttle  children  of  the  fairy  tale 
wandering  about  bewildered  till  robin  red- 
breast should  come  and  gently  cover  them  over 
with  beautiful  leaves.  So  far  as  I  knew,  that 
artless  band  couldn't  muster  two  words  of 
[97] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

French  between  it.  Even  the  French  horns 
were  pure  Irish.  Fisher,  their  leader,  had  but 
recently  been  commissioned.  And  while  he 
could  lead  the  jBngers  and  the  lips  of  his  men 
through  the  "Maritana  Overture'*  in  masterly 
fashion,  I  feared  that  he  might  lack  the  more 
mundane  capacity  to  guide  their  feet  through 
the  Stygian  mazes  of  a  strange  foreign  city, 
darkened  against  air-raids.  I  imagined  that 
miserable  band  wandering  about  like  lost 
sheep,  weighed  down  by  the  tuba  and  the  big 
bass  drum  and  dragging  them  wearily  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  dark  labyrinth  of  the  slums. 

Of  course  I  hastened  to  Pier  7. 

No!  Positively  no  band  had  arrived  there 
that  evening.  No  band  of  any  kind.  If  they  had, 
they  would  most  certainly  have  been  held  up 
for  a  tune.  The  dusky  American  stevedores  al- 
ways worked  better  under  the  stimulus  of  the 
divine  art  of  melody.  No  band  was  ever  allowed 
to  effect  a  landing  there  without  limbering  up 
their  instruments  and  playing  a  shake-down 
and  a  cake-walk.  "You  ought,"  continued  the 
[  98  ] 


I   MISLAY   THE   BAND 

young  shavetail,  "to  see  the  *  shines*  put  their 
backs  into  it  when  that  happens.  And  it  hap- 
pens quite  often.  They  unload  a  boat  in  half 
the  time.  Say,  do  you  know,  what  I  Ve  seen  on 
this  dock  has  convinced  me  that  we're  going 
to  win  the  war  toot  sweet.  The  very  first  month 
we  Yankees  took  hold  here  we  unloaded  just 
twenty-nine  times  as  much  freight  as  the 
French  had  ever  imloaded  in  their  best  month. 
Why,  there'll  be  nothing  to  it.  But  about  yoiur 
band.  I  wish  they'd  show  up  here." 

I  stemmed  the  young  oflScer's  rhapsodies 
over  the  effect  of  my  favorite  art  on  the  activi- 
ties of  the  darker  side  of  the  S.O.S.  The  S.O.S. 
was  not  what  interested  me  just  then.  What 
interested  me  was  helping  to  get  the  313th  In- 
fantry intact  to  the  front.  I  asked  him  what  he 
thought  could  have  happened  to  the  band.  He 
could  not  say  for  sure,  but  a  couple  of  lighters 
had  that  evening  broken  away  from  the  Levia- 
than and  were  rapidly  drifting  out  to  sea  in  a 
helpless  manner.  Perhaps  my  band  was  on  one 
of  these. 

[99] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Good  Heavens!  The  outlook  was  growing 
worse  and  worse.  A  lighter  that  had  got  so  far 
out  of  control  as  to  break  away  and  drift  sea- 
ward might  be  in  a  sinking  condition.  My  un- 
happy imagination  boggled  at  what  it  beheld. 
Why,  the  poor  fellows  most  likely  did  not  even 
have  life-belts  along.  I  imagined  their  frantic 
but  vain  eflForts  to  plug  both  ends  of  the  bass 
tuba  so  that  it  might  float  and  serve  as  a  Hfe- 
raf t.  This  failing,  I  beheld  with  the  blood-shot 
eye  of  my  mind,  the  thirty-seven  heroes  all 
struggling  in  concentric  circles  to  lay  a  hand 
on  the  buoyant  bass  drum. 

In  vain!  Down  goes  the  doctor  of  philosophy 
who  performs  so  divinely  upon  the  piccolo. 
Their  last  gasps  bubble  up  from  the  lips  of  the 
pliunber  who  plays  the  bassoon  and  the  tutor 
who  tootles  the  flute.  For  the  third  and  last 
time  the  commanding  head  of  Lieutenant 
Fisher  emerges  from  the  foam  commanding  his 
merry  men  to  swim  allegro  vivace,  while  his 
baton  arm  rhythmically  caresses  old  ocean's 
gray  and  melancholy  waist.  .  .  . 

[  100  1 


I   MISLAY   THE   BAND 

Wild-eyed  I  hunted  up  the  quartermaster 
lieutenant  in  charge  of  unloading  operations, 
and  persuaded  him  to  send  out  an  inquiry  to 
the  Leviathan  regarding  the  whereabouts  of 
the  band.  He  was  a  good  fellow  and  consented 
at  once.  According  to  him  it  was  a  perfectly 
simple  matter.  He  would  merely  telephone  to 
the  Naval  Station,  which  would  flash  the  mes- 
sage by  Morse  code  to  another  place,  which 
would  pass  it  on  to  a  dreadnought.  And  the 
dreadnought  would  flash  it  out  to  the  Levia- 
than. It  was  all  as  easy  as  A  B  C.  The  answer 
would  be  back  in  twenty  minutes'  time. 

Two  hours  and  a  haM  dragged  their  slow 
length  along.  No  answer.  We  telephoned,  and 
the  Naval  Station  vaguely  but  optimistically 
reported  progress.  It  was  two  in  the  morning 
and  we  were  to  entrain  at  five-thirty.  We 
flashed  out  another  and  more  imperative  in- 
quiry. At  length  that  great,  slow-moving  body, 
the  Leviathan,  responded.  It  was  an  ambiguous 
message,  saying  that  the  band  had  just  left. 
It  did  not  say  which  band  or  what  pier  it  was 
[101] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

bound  for.  But  the  Keutenant  explained  that 
there  were  only  two  possible  docks  at  which  it 
could  land  and  he  was  positive  that  there  was 
no  lighter  en  route  to  either  of  these  docks.  He 
said  he  ought  to  know  about  that  if  anybody  on 
earth  did,  as  he  was  the  ranking  officer  in 
charge  of  docking  faciHties.  By  a  process  of 
eUmination,  the  313th  Lifantry  band  must  still 
be  on  board  the  Leviathan. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  extorted  a 
small  tug  from  the  authorities,  climbed  preca- 
riously over  the  mountainous  cargoes  of  three 
freighters  waiting  to  be  unloaded,  swung  down 
a  chain  into  the  tug,  with  difficulty  aroused  the 
French  skipper  and  his  crew;  and,  in  no  more 
time  than  it  takes  to  get  sleepy  and  reluctant 
Frenchmen  limbered  up  and  launched  into  a 
full  tide  of  activity,  we  were  off. 

There  was  room  in  the  cabin  for  only  ten 
men  packed  close;  and  I  spent  my  force  figuring 
out  where  to  accommodate  a  band  of  thirty- 
seven  souls,  supposing  them  not  to  have  been 
on  one  of  the  lighters  that  had  drifted  out  to 
[  102  ] 


I   MISLAY   THE   BAND 

sea.  For  large  waves  were  breaking  over  the 
scanty  deck  above.  And  where  should  I  dis- 
pose the  bass  drum  out  of  the  wet? 

We  drew  alongside  the  huge  cliflF  of  Levia- 
than, and  I  tackled  the  deck  officer.  He  thought 
my  band  had  left,  but  was  not  sure  how  or 
when  or  why  or  to  what  end.  I  thought  of  recom- 
mending to  that  band,  if  I  ever  caught  it,  to 
adopt  as  its  motto  those  hues  of  Omar  Khdy- 
ydm's: 

"AVhat,  without  asking,  hither  hurried  Whence? 
And,  without  asking,  Whither  hurried  hence!" 

But  then  I  recollected  that  the  stanza  ended 
in  a  resolution  to  indulge  in 

"Full  many  a  cup  of  this  forbidden  wine"; 

and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  might  perhaps  be 
better  for  regularity  of  rhythm,  and  purity  of 
intonation  in  public  performance,  not  to  bring 
these  encouraging  words  to  their  attention. 

At  a  moment's  notice  it  is  a  diflScult  thing 

to  lay  your  hands  on  thirty-seven   dreamy, 

unpractical,  and  retiring  musicians  in  a  ship 

whose  war-time  capacity  is  fourteen  thousand 

[  103  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

souls.  Beginning  with  the  officers  higher  up, 
and  progressing  methodically  to  those  lower 
down,  I  woke  up  all  the  naval  dignitaries,  one 
by  one. 

Like  true  knights  errant  of  the  sea,  they 
were  all  dignified  and  courteous,  once  they  had 
dug  the  sand  out  of  their  eyes .  But  none  of 
them  knew  anything  definite  about  the  313th 
band  except  that  it  had  played  very  agreeably 
during  the  voyage.  Of  this  fact  I  was  already 
aware.  And  as  I  was  now  hungry  and  thirsty 
and  a  bit  on  edge,  I  had  some  ado  to  restrain 
myself  from  pointing  out  that  my  knowledge 
along  this  line  equaled  theirs  in  every  respect. 

I  woke  up  the  men  of  the  band  of  another 
regiment  of  the  79th  Division  which  had  not 
yet  disembarked.  (I  thought  I  could  distin- 
guish the  bandsmen  from  the  less  aesthetic 
doughboys  because  they  snored  with  greater 
sonority  and  sweetness,  and  because  their  com- 
bined efforts  blended  into  one  mighty  barber- 
shop chord  which  came  nearer  to  being  the  lost 
chord  than  anything  I  have  since  heard.)  I 
[  104  ] 


I   MISLAY   THE   BAND 

asked  them  what  had  become  of  the  SlSth 
band.  Wakened  thus  abruptly  in  the  small 
hours,  they  had  some  diflSeulty  in  deciding 
whether  this  was  to-night,  last  night,  or  to- 
morrow. But  they  finally  agreed  that  my  band 
had  left  the  evening  before.  They  could,  how- 
ever, supply  none  of  those  precise  details  for 
which  my  soul  yearned. 

I  woke  up  their  colonel.  He  heaved  aloft  his 
pink-spotted  pyjamas,  pondered  darkly  for  a 
space  of  time,  and  then  swore  softly  to  himself. 

"Well,"  he  finally  said,  ^'I'm  an  old  West- 
Pointer  and  I  Ve  heard  of  mislaying  everything 
in  the  United  States  Army  from  a  firing-pin  to 

a  field  kitchen;  —  but  I'll  be if  I 

ever  heard  of  mislaying  a  military  band!" 

Then  he  pulled  the  blankets  over  his  head 
and  morosely  prepared  to  relapse  into  slumber. 
As  I  departed  I  could  hear  him  mutter: 

"Lost  a  band!  Well,  I'U  be 1" 

Finally,  from  one  of  the  stokers  in  the  hold 
I  definitely  learned,  with  impressive  concrete 
details,  that  different  sections  of  the  313th 
[  105] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

band  had  left  that  night  at  eight  and  nine- 
thirty  in  two  coal  barges.  Destination  unknown. 

On  this  I  dimbed  back  into  the  tug,  aroused 
the  French  nation,  and  combined  a  nice  cool 
shower  up  on  deck  with  watching  the  early 
dawn  streak  the  surface  of  that  marvelous  har- 
bor. If  I  had  been  in  a  properly  receptive 
frame  of  mind  I  would  doubtless  have  received 
some  very  aesthetic  impressions. 

"That's  bad!"  exclaimed  my  lieutenant  of 
the  port  when  I  told  him  the  stoker's  story;  "I 
never  thought  of  those  coal  barges.  Your  band 
is  probably,  at  this  moment,  five  miles  away 
down  the  harbor,  hopelessly  stymied.  Here  it 
is,  four-thirty,  and  only  an  hour  left  before  your 
entrainment.  With  the  fastest  truck  I  have, 
you  could  n't  possibly  get  out  there  and  back 
in  an  hour  through  the  mess  you'd  have  to 
negotiate.'* 

At  that  crucial  moment,  had  I  for  an  instant 

lost  control,  I  would  have  begun  to  gobble  like 

a  turkey  and  to  run  up  the  walls.  Never  before 

so  clearly  had  I  recognized  the  wonderfully 

[  106  ] 


I    MISLAY   THE    BAND 

expressive  power  of  that  vulgar  phrase,  "to 
beat  the  band,"  in  connoting  superlative  states 
of  longing  or  passion.  In  a  superlative  degree  I 
now  passionately  longed  to  beat  the  band  of 
the  313th  Infantry,  A.E.F. 

"There's  only  one  hope  left,''  said  I.  "That 
stoker,  like  everybody  else,  may  have  been 
wrong.  I'll  call  up  the  railroad  station  again  on 
the  chance." 

I  had  never  liked  the  telephone  much.  But 
that  morning  I  experienced  a  change  of  heart 
toward  it.  And  if  the  Signal  Corps  had  only 
been  thoughtful  enough  to  run  a  wire  out 
from  the  port  to  the  so-called  "Rest  Camp,"  I 
probably  should  never  have  another  word  to 
say  against  that  instrument  of  torture,  though 
I  lived  to  be  older  than  the  Father  of  Lies  who 
had  distributed  his  offspring  so  plentifully 
about  the  city  of  Brest. 

"Hello,  hello!  Yes,  the  313th  band  have  just 
arrived.  I  can  see  them  now  through  my  win- 
dow, sitting  on  their  instruments  in  the  yard. 
Yes,  yes,  I  see  both  the  bass  drum  and  the  big 
[  107  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

bass  tuba.  They  look  intact.  Talk  with  Fisher? 
Why,  certainly.  Hold  the  wire." 

Then  Fisher,  whose  generalship  I  had  so 
groundlessly  mistrusted,  explained  to  me  in  a 
voice  faint  from  exhaustion,  that,  in  obedience 
to  orders,  he  had  taken  the  band  from  the  Le- 
viathan at  nine-thirty  the  previous  evening  on 
a  diflEerent  lighter  than  had  ever  been  heard 
of  by  me  or  by  the  port  lieutenant;  had  landed 
at  an  unknown  dock  that  was  far  out  of  our 
combined  kens,  and  had  spent  the  entire  night 
of  my  anxious  researches  marching  like  the  king 
of  France  and  thirty-seven  men,  up  the  hill  to 
the  "Rest  Camp,"  then  turning  around  with 
the  outfit  and  marching  down  again,  dragging 
the  bass  drum  and  the  tuba  in  his  wake. 

Nunc  dimittisl  I  had  the  band  and  I  had  the 
grub  and  I  had  the  five-thirty,  too. 

Sequel:  After  the  armistice  Fisher  found 
himself  in  Brest,  with  General  Pershing's  lim- 
ousine at  his  disposal.  He  lay  back  in  the  soft 
cushions  and  lit  a  fat  cigar.  "The  Rest  Camp, 
James,"  he  murmured. 


CHAPTER  IX 
fiddler's  magic 

DURING  my  whole  service  in  France  up 
to  the  day  when  I  arose  from  the  cot  in 
Base  Hospital  Fourteen  and  began  to  hobble,  I 
had  only  one  fiddling  adventure. 

My  regiment  spent  some  time  in  the  town  of 
Champlitte,  training  for  the  front  lines.  So  far 
as  we  were  aware,  Champlitte  possessed  but  a 
single  bathtub.  You  dropped  into  the  bathing 
establishment  every  time  you  passed  that  way, 
and  once  during  the  course  of  several  weeks 
you  probably  were  fortunate  enough  to  find 
the  tub  hospitably  vacant. 

Now,  I  had  known  about  cleanliness  being 
next  to  godliness.  France  showed  me  that  it 
was  but  one  remove  from  the  divine  art  of  fid- 
dling. One  day  I  called  to  make  the  usual  ten- 
der inquiries  after  the  bathtub's  condition.  I 
was  informed  that  it  was  doing  better  than 
was  to  be  expected  under  the  circumstances, 
[  109  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

and  that  if  I  would  honor  a  chair  in  the  next 
room  for  a  little  bit  with  my  distinguished  pres- 
ence, facilities  for  cleanliness  would  soon  be  at 
my  disposal.  I  was  ushered  into  the  family 
parlor. 

The  first  thing  that  I  saw  on  entering  was  a 
'cello.  It  was  suffering  from  anaemia,  dandruff, 
recessive  gums,  and  that  form  of  acute  St. 
Vitus's  dance  in  the  lumbar  regions  known  as 
"Pernicious  Wolf  Tone";  but  it  was  still  a 
'cello.  Of  course  I  picked  it  up  and  began  to 
play. 

In  rushed  Madame,  clasping  her  hands  as  if 
in  ecstasy.  In  waddled  Grand'mere,  not  in  any 
ecstasy,  but  flying  signals  of  extreme  content. 
In  tornadoed  a  small  boy  and  began  to  cavort 
about  my  chair,  like  a  young  puppy,  wild  with 
jubilation  on  being  released  from  long  cap- 
tivity and  offered  a  juicy  bone. 

I  inquired  if  the  bath  were  ready. 

"Ah,  M.  le  Lieutenanty  but  first  we  entreat 
you  to  play  some  morel  You  cannot  know  how 
we  have  starved  for  our  dear  music  during  these 
[  110] 


FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

sad  years  when  no  one  has  had  the  heart  to  play. 
But  now  it  is  different.  Thanks  to  messieurs  les 
AmSricains  we  are  about  to  achieve  the  vic- 
tory." 

I  asked  what  they  wanted  to  hear,  and  they 
wanted  the  "  Meditation  "  from  "  Thais,"  which 
brought  back  sad  memories  of  my  quarrel 
with  Priscilla,  copious  extracts  from  "Faust," 
Massenet's  "Elegie,"  the  "Berceuse"  from 
"  Jocelyn"  and  the  Sextet  from  "Lucia."  These 
I  dutifully  rendered  while  my  audience  caressed 
the  music  with  their  eyes.  Madame  slipped  out 
for  a  moment  and  returned  with  a  bottle  of 
her  choicest  wine.  Grand'm^re  cut  me  a  bunch 
of  delicious  grapes  from  the  arbor  outside  the 
door. 

I  was  not  allowed  to  bathe  until  I  had  given 
young  Antoine,  the  'cello's  owner,  some  point- 
ers on  how  to  manipulate  his  property.  While 
I  splashed,  the  earnest  gargon  kept  running  in 
with  eager  inquiries  about  how  to  bow  a  chord, 
how  to  make  the  C  string  stay  at  C  without 
slipping  down  to  zero  every  few  moments,  and 

[111] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

how  to  gain  the  rare  altitude  of  the  fourth  posi- 
tion without  slipping  into  a  crevasse. 

When  all  was  said  and  done  and  bathed,  I 
had  much  ado  to  make  Madame  accept  com- 
pensation. Regarding  the  wine  and  the  grapes 
she  was  adamant.  Had  I  not  brightened  their 
lives  and  given  them  all  a  foretaste  of  the  peace- 
time coming?  Any  moment  I  wanted  to  play 
that  'cello  to  my  friends,  Antoine  should  carry 
it  for  me  to  whatever  point  I  might  designate. 
For  it  was  not  meet  and  right  that  an  oflScer 
should  bemean  his  honored  uniform  by  carry- 
-ing  so  bulky  and  plebeian  a  parcel. 

Now  it  happened  that  I  did  want  to  fiddle 
elsewhere;  for  I  had  found  a  pianist  in  almost  as 
singular  a  fashion  as  I  had  found  a  'cello.  I  had 
found  the  'cello  on  the  way  to  a  bath.  And  I 
had  found  the  pianist  on  the  way  to  a  dentist. 

It  all  began  with  the  texture  and  consistency 
of  the  A.E.F.  bread.  This  form  of  the  staff  of 
life  was  durably  constructed  of  ironwood.  It 
was  of  so  firm  a  substance  that  only  teeth  of 
Bessemer  steel  fitted   with   diamond  points 

[  112  ] 


FIDDLER'S    MAGIC 

could  have  bitten  it  month  in,  month  out,  and 
remained  intact.  Mine,  being  made  of  merely 
mortal  enamel  and  a  very  painful  substance 
they  call  pulp,  rained  fillings  like  the  hail  that 
plagued  Egypt,  and  cried  ^^Kameradr'  and 
had  to  be  taken  to  the  hospital. 

But  when  they  arrived  there  the  dentist 
looked  sheepish  and  confessed  that  all  his 
tools  had  been  sent  to  France  in  the  heavy 
freight,  along  with  the  'cello  the  regiment  had 
bought  me,  and  had  probably  shared  the  same 
fate  at  the  hands  of  the  submarines  —  or 
whatever  it  is  that  submarines  do  their  dirty 
work  with.  Unless  he  hitched  my  tooth  to  a 
wire  and  the  other  end  of  the  wire  to  a  bullet, 
and  pulled  the  trigger  and  shot  the  bullet  forth 
into  space,  he  could  not  help  my  tooth  out.  I 
explained  that  filling,  not  extraction,  more  pulp 
rather  than  less,  was  my  ideal.  But  he  had  not 
a  single  tool,  and  could  not  say  when  he  could 
get  his  hands  upon  any. 

My  little  affair  was  urgent  and  I  was  unwill- 
ing to  let  the  matter  rest  there.  I  started  forth 

[  113  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

to  find  him  some  of  the  murderous  instruments 
of  his  profession.  It  soon  developed  that  all  the 
local  French  tooth-doctors  were  at  the  front 
and,  unlike  our  own,  had  all  their  tools  with 
them. 

Hold!  One  of  them  had  been  killed  in  action. 
Perhaps  the  widow  possessed  his  outfit.  I  has- 
tened to  the  address  and  found  a  delightful 
lady  who  owned  a  large  and  representative 
memorial  collection  of  dental  forceps  (from 
which  I  involuntarily  recoiled),  and  a  charming 
daughter  who  produced  no  such  effect  upon  me. 

This  young  woman,  indeed,  played  the  piano 
remarkably  handily.  I  revealed  my  own  weak- 
ness for  operating  upon  the  'cello.  We  accord- 
ingly laid  our  plans  with  affectionate  minute- 
ness as  to  what  we  would  make  happen  if  a 
'cello  could  be  discovered.  But  it  never  was, 
until  the  day  I  finally  found  the  bathtub  empty. 

The  very  next  evening  I  summoned  Antoine 
with  his  poor,  suflfering  old  bull-fiddle,  and 
Mademoiselle  and  I  gave  ourselves  and  the 
family  a  concert.  She  did  not  have  any  music 

[  114  ] 


FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

anywhere  but  in  her  head.  But  she  had  so 
much  there  that  we  performed  all  the  evening 
without  once  repeating  ourselves.  At  first  she 
played,  like  ninety-nine  pianists  out  of  a  hun- 
dred, a  bit  heavily.  But  she  made  me  feel  like 
the  lord  of  creation  when  I  murmured  in  her 
ear,  "Let  it  be  light,"  and  it  was  light.  If  only 
my  youthful  lady-love  Priscilla,  I  sadly  re- 
flected, had  been  as  amenable  to  suggestion  as 
this  mademoiselle^  how  differently  our  lives 
might  have  turned  out!  Also,  if  only  I  could  get 
Priscilla  out  of  my  mind,  how  much  more 
amenable  I  would  be  to  the  charms  of  the  ma- 
demoiselles.  It  was  a  vicious  circle  and  my  mind 
became  so  involved  in  it  that  I  played  an 
atrociously  wrong  note  very  loud,  and  came  to 
earth  with  a  crash  and  realized  with  whom  I 
was  playing. 

Like  most  of  her  country-women,  and  like 
most  of  the  English  and  other  peoples  who  had 
been  at  war  long  enough  to  find  a  full  outlet  for 
all  their  pent-up  energies  and  passions,  this  girl 
had  no  prejudice  against  German  music;  so 
[115] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

we  alternated  Debussy  with  Beethoven  and 
Franck  with  Bach  to  everybody's  satisfaction. 
And  afterwards,  when  I  took  Antoine's  'cello 
over  to  the  American  OflScers'  Club  and  played 
until  midnight,  there  was  the  same  feeling  that 
art  is  international  and  that  to  cut  oflf  German 
music  is  no  wiser  than  cutting  off  your  own 
nose  to  spite  your  face. 

It  was  interesting  to  notice  that  this  feeling 
grew  much  more  pronounced  in  my  regiment 
after  we  had  been  under  fire.  As  a  rule  I  found 
that  the  front-line  fighting  man  had  little  or  no 
prejudice  against  German  music.  He  had  trans- 
lated into  action  and  worked  out  of  his  system 
that  pent-up  spleen  which  so  ate  into  the  vitals 
of  the  S.O.S.  and  of  the  good  folks  at  home. 

His  idea  was  somewhat  as  follows:  "Let's 
lap  up  everything  good  that  we  can  get  out  of 
those  miserable  Boches  and  enjoy  it  to  the  limit. 
That's  the  least  we  can  do  to  get  even  for 
the  rats  and  the  mud,  the  bombs,  the  forced 
marches,  the  hospitals,  the  cold,  and  the  coot- 
ies." So  he  consumed  a  German  tune  with  the 
[  116  ] 


FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

same  gusto  that  he  showed  in  sampling  the 
cigars  and  Schnapps  he  found  in  the  captured 
dugout.  I  consider  this  a  healthier  state  than 
being  poisoned  by  the  ingrowing  morbidness 
of  the  non-combatants. 

Feeling  against  German  music  appeared  to 
increase  in  direct  proportion  to  the  agitator's 
distance  from  Germany.  I  remember  that  it 
was  a  telephone  girl  in  the  rearest  of  the  rear 
who  based  her  abhorrence  of  German  music  on 
the  highly  original   ground  that  it  was  bad 
music.  Triumphantly  she  backed  up  this  con- 
tention with  the  syllogism: 
"Music  is  goodness; 
The  German  is  not  good; 
Therefore  the  German  is  not  musical." 
Naturally  I  forbore  to  invert  this  extraor- 
dinary proposition  and  come  back  with : 
"Music  is  goodness; 
The  German  is  musical; 
Therefore  the  German  is  good,"  — 
for  I  did  not  in  the  least  think  so  myself.  I 
merely  inquired  of  her  in  the  mildest  of  tones 
[117] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

whether  Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms  were, 
then,  unmusical.  In  the  engaging  manner  of  so 
many  cornered  ladies,  she  resorted  at  once  to 
invective.  With  wrath  flashing  from  her  eyes 
she  denounced  me  as  a  disgrace  to  the  uniform 
I  wore. 

It  was  clear  that  my  views  on  the  art  of 
music  had  not  made  a  hit  with  the  telephone 
girl.  I  told  myself  that  you  can't  please  any 
one  with  everything  any  more  than  you  can 
please  every  one  with  anything.  But  this  philo- 
sophical reflection  did  little  toward  cheering 
me.  For  then  and  there  I  perceived  that  when 
I  stopped  shooting  the  Boches  and  being  shot 
at  by  them,  and  went  home,  I  would  have  to 
choose  between  disliking  Beethoven,  and  being 
shot  at  by  a  considerable  body  of  non-com- 
batants. 

This  was  a  painful  dilemma.  For,  in  going 
over  the  top,  it  was  Beethoven  and  other 
Boches  of  his  sort  who  kept  such  nice,  encour- 
aging tunes  going  all  the  time  in  my  head,  that 
they  made  the  whizz-bangs  and  the  blind  pigs 

[  118  ] 


FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

and  the  bombs  and  bullets  sound  much  less 
dismaying  than  they  might  have  otherwise 
sounded.  These  good  Teutonic  musicians  re- 
leased more  of  my  energies  toward  the  great 
end  of  making  more  present-day  Germans 
good,  that  is,  dead.  It  was  a  droll  thing  to 
catch  Brahms  in  the  act  of  helping  me  kill 
his  compatriots;  for  in  my  rather  exposed  solo 
position  as  Assistant  Regimental  Intelligence 
OflScer  during  an  attack,  I  found  no  more 
helpful  aide  than  the  composer  of  the  "Tri- 
umphlied." 

My  chief  recollection  of  music  in  the  trenches 
is  of  the  wedding  hymns  which  the  highly  uxo- 
rious rats  of  Verrieres  sang  as  they  performed 
Russian  ballets  on  the  corrugated  iron  of  my 
superterranean  dugout,  and  used  my  face  as  a 
springboard  for  the  high  dive.  So  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  say  much  of  anything  about  fiddler's 
magic  at  the  front  because  it  was  conspicuous 
by  its  absence. 

Stay!  There  was  one  rare  specimen  of  a 
fiddler  —  well,  perhaps  not  exactly  a  fiddler, 
[119] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

but,  anyway,  a  magician  —  who  went  into  the 
Meuse-Argonne  offensive  with  us  before  Mont- 
faucon,  sitting  up  on  top  of  his  tank  with  the 
shells  bursting  about  him  at  reasonable  dis- 
tances and  intervals.  All  this  time  he  kept 
twanging  a  disreputable  banjo  and  singing  at 
the  top  of  a  gay  and  lusty  voice  —  till  one  of 
the  shells  put  a  sudden  and  final  double-bar  to 
the  music.  The  Kttle  incident  reminded  me  of 
that  line  of  Kipling's: 

"You  could  n't  pack  a  Broadwood  half  a  mile"; 
and  what  follows  in  praise  of  the  banjo  as  a 
military  instrument. 

My  beloved  Brahms  was  the  best  of  bunkies 
and  buddies  right  up  to  the  moment  when  the 
Boche  sniper  in  the  tree  got  me  through  the  hip 
bone.  And  he  stayed  with  me  during  the  hours 
of  jolting  back  on  the  stretcher  borne  by  will- 
ing but  awkward  amateurs.  And  he  stayed  with 
me  all  the  time  that  very  elastic  Ford  ambu- 
lance was  cavorting  back  Andante  con  motor^ 
through  the  shell-holes  to  the  Field  Hospital. 

It  was  one  of  those  high-brow  ambulances 
[  120  ] 


FIDDLER'S   MAGIC 

that  have  no  use  for  low  gear.  Low,  in  fact,  was 
burned  out.  So  every  time  we  struck  a  shell- 
hole,  Henry  Ford  gave  a  last  gasp  and  had 
eventually  (we  asked  ourselves,  "Why  not 
now?'*)  to  be  propelled  by  hand  to  the  crest  of 
the  next  hill.  Those  hours  might  have  been  an 
unpleasant  experience  if  it  had  not  been  for 
that  double-distilled  extract  of  fiddler's  magic 
represented  by  the  Brahms  sextets.  Henry 
might  shake  me  imtil  I  was  all  hip,  but,  in  the 
words  of  the  ancient  song,  those  darling  old 
comrades  the  (sextets)  were  there  by  my  side. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  "Atlantic"  supplies  me  with 

TOOTH-PASTE 

THE  two  days  in  the  Field  Hospital  were 
over;  likewise  the  two  days  in  the  Evacu- 
ation Hospital  at  Souilly.  Dead  and  done  were 
the  two  days  in  the  filthy  French  cattle-car 
where  you  lay  with  another  wounded  officer 
six  inches  above  your  nose,  tended  by  a  pic- 
turesque old  ruflSan  named  Philippe  who  knew 
but  one  word  of  English.  At  last  the  stretchers 
jolted  us  into  a  long,  chilly  paradise  of  clean 
sheets  and  real  American  girls,  who  gave  us 
baths  and  cups  of  cocoa. 

We  were  in  luck.  All  the  hospitals  were  full. 
Those  who  were  wounded  after  us  must  take 
their  chances  of  lying  on  the  dry  side  of  a 
hedge  in  the  cold  rain. 

The  surgeon  major  came  through  with  his 
bunch  of  catalogue  cards,  the  Who's  Who  of 
Ward  Four.  He  paused  beside  my  bed,  ran  his 
[  122  ] 


ATLANTIC   AND   TOOTH-PASTE 

finger  over  them,  picked  one  out,  read  it,  and 
glanced  at  me  with  a  sharp  look. 

I  could  hear  him  murmur  my  name  to  him- 
self, and  then,  "Born  in  Austria." 

Suspicion  was  plainly  dawning  in  the  major's 
eyes.  Already  I  foresaw  myself  marked  down 
as  a  possible  spy  and  carried  out  and  laid  under 
a  hedge  to  make  room  for  some  Captain  John 
Smith  born  in  Topeka.  There  was  a  look  of 
bigoted  conviction  about  that  major,  which 
told  me  how  useless  it  would  be  to  explain  that 
three  of  my  four  grandparents  had  been  Plym- 
outh Rock  Yankees,  and  that  the  fourth,  he 
who  had  thoughtlessly  endowed  me  with  my 
too  Teutonic  name,  had  been  an  American  citi- 
zen. When  they  are  hot  on  the  trail  of  spies, 
the  higher  army  officers  do  not  bother  much 
with  hstening  to  such  fine-drawn  and  subtle 
distinctions  as  these.  I  could  almost  hear  this 
train  of  logic  forming  itself  in  the  major's  mind: 

"His  name  is  German; 
He  was  bom  in  Austria; 
Therefore  he  must  be  a  spy.'* 
[  123  ] 


FIDDLER^S   LUCK 

I  braced  myself  for  the  conflict,  looked  at  the 
major  and  prepared  to  speak.  But,  as  I  did  so, 
his  expression  changed.  All  at  once  a  flash  of 
eager  curiosity  replaced  the  look  of  hostile 
suspicion. 

**Look  here,"  he  said,  "y^^  don't  happen  to 
come,  do  you,  from  that  family  of  American 
missionaries  that  was  bom  all  over  creation?" 

*^Yes,  sir." 

The  major  grew  excited. 

**Is  the  ordnance  captain  with  the  six  sons 
any  relative  of  yours?" 

"My  brother." 

The  major's  hand  shot  out. 

"Put  it  there,  old  manl  Charlie's  about  the 
best  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  Why,  I  just 
operated  on  two  of  his  boys  before  coming 
abroad." 

"  Yes,  and  now  they  're  both  serving  in  France 
along  with  three  other  nephews  of  mine." 

"Look  here,  what  relation  are  you  to  the 
chap  who  writes  about  fiddlers  and  things  in 
the'Atlantic'?" 

[  124   ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

In  a  subdued  voice,  for  fear  of  losing  caste 
with  my  brother  oflBcers  in  the  neighboring 
beds,  I  explained  the  nature  of  my  relationship 
to  that  slave  of  the  quill. 

The  major  seemed  taken  aback. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried.  '*  And  to  think 
that  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  denouncing  you 
asaspyl'* 

Again  he  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand  and 
told  me  that  he  had  all  my  books  in  his  library. 

This  was  a  double  surprise.  First,  not  to  be 
treated  as  a  spy  when  all  the  indications 
pointed  that  way.  Second,  to  be  reminded  that 
I  had  once  written  books.  For  the  last  year  that 
fact  had  been  entirely  wiped  out  of  my  con- 
sciousness by  the  all-expunging  eraser  of  urgent 
military  affairs. 

"My  colleague  the  medical  major  must  know 
of  this  at  once,"  exclaimed  my  new  friend.  "He 
has  often  mentioned  your  stuff  to  me.  He  is  a 
faithful  *  Atlantic'  reader,  and  you  will  find 
him  a  bang-up  musical  amateur." 

He  hurried  away  and  in  a  few  moments 
[  125  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

brought  back  a  person  whom  I  shall  always 
regard  as  one  of  the  largest-souled  and  warm- 
est-hearted of  all  my  friends.  The  medical 
major's  first  words  to  me  were  wholly  charac- 
teristic of  the  man : 

"What  can  I  get  you?" 

Any  soldier  who  has  ever  traveled  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles  by  slow  freight  between  wound 
and  base  hospital  will  know  how  welcome  these 
words  sounded.  All  honor  to  the  dauntless  am- 
bulance drivers  and  the  compassionate  hos- 
pital orderlies.  But  how  they  could  steal!  By 
the  time  I  reached  the  base  I  had  lost  every- 
thing I  possessed  except  the  clothes  on  my  back 
and  my  automatic  pistol.  And  every  single 
driver  who  flivved  me,  and  every  single  orderly 
who  tended  me,  had  tried  his  best  to  steal  that 
Savage. 

I  had  preserved  it  for  posterity  only  by  lying 
continuously  upon  it.  Uncomfortable,  of  course, 
but  the  only  sure  way.  If  that  Savage  had  pos- 
sessed any  of  the  properties  of  an  egg,  or  I  of 
a  hen,  I  would,  before  reaching  Base  Fourteen, 
[  126  ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

have  hatched  out  a  considerable  flock  of  Uttle 
Savages.  My  success  in  keeping  the  weapon 
was  extraordinary.  Nineteen  oflScers  in  my 
ward  out  of  twenty  had  been  reheved  of  their 
pistols  early  in  the  game,  and  had  had  their 
money  belts  rifled  as  soon  as  they  went  under 
ether  in  the  Field  Hospital. 

"What  can  I  get  you?"  asked  that  blessed 
major. 

"Tooth-paste,  a  toothbrush,  and  a  sweater," 
I  replied  without  an  instant's  hesitation. 

He  nodded  and  returned  in  half  an  hour  car- 
rying a  khaki  kit-bag  crammed  with  all  these, 
and  such  additional  luxuries  as  socks,  dental 
floss,  handkerchiefs,  cigarettes,  a  comb,  and 
writing-materials.  Praised  be  his  name! 

The  medical  major  used  to  drop  in  and  sit 
down  on  my  bed  for  a  chat  at  least  twice  a  day. 
I  found  him  a  very  intelligent  amateur  musi- 
cian, and  our  mouths  would  water  as  we  talked 
of  historic  performances  we  had  heard  by  the 
Chicago  Orchestra,  the  Flonzaleys,  the  Olive 
Meads,  Bauer  and  Gabrilowitch,  and  how  jolly 
[  127  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

it  would  be  if  we  two  might  play  the  Franck 
sonata  together  —  for  the  major  eventually 
proved  to  be  a  very  able  pianist. 

"Just  wait  till  you  can  hobble,"  he  would 
say.  "Then  I'll  dig  you  up  some  sort  of  a  'cello, 
and  we'll  have  fun." 

The  first  thing  this  good  Samaritan  did,  as 
soon  as  I  could  move  about,  was  to  place  his 
own  private  room  at  my  disposal  during  the 
daytime.  It  was  a  god-send.  The  long  hours 
of  solitude  with  his  library  of  French  novels 
proved  to  be  an  even  more  delicious  luxury 
than  the  sheets  had  been,  on  emerging  from 
the  cattle-car. 

Now,  I  like  my  kind  passing  well.  But  for  a 
year  and  a  haK  I  had  lived  continuously,  day 
and  night,  in  their  immediate  presence.  And 
such  is  the  tyranny  of  the  musical  ear  that 
there  had  been  no  possibility  of  ever  indulging 
in  my  own  thoughts  if  any  of  the  comrades 
were  singing,  whistling,  playing  the  phono- 
graph, or  snoring  —  and  they  were  nearly  al- 
ways doing  one  or  the  other.  All  the  chinks,  of 
[  128  ] 


ATLANTIC   AND   TOOTH-PASTE 

course,  were  filled  in  with  profanity  of  the  first 
order.  There  is  something  musical  about  a  good 
curse  if  well  performed.  And  the  sound  of  pro- 
fanity was  never  still  in  the  A.E.F. 

Sometimes,  when  the  audible  world  has  been 
too  much  with  me,  I  have  thought  that  the 
Utopian  type  of  universal  democracy  enjoined 
by  such  enthusiasts  as  Walt  Whitman  must  be 
rather  easier  for  unmusical  folk  to  attain  and 
maintain.  People  whose  ears  are  not  particu- 
larly sensitive  have  a  gross  advantage.  Sight, 
smell,  taste,  and  touch  can  get  along  in  almost 
any  crowd  with  kindliness  and  geniality.  You 
can  overlook  or  underlook  ugliness  of  feature, 
or  deliberately  close  your  eyes  to  it.  You  can 
light  a  cigar  or  invoke  perfume  against  an  evil 
odor.  Unless  you  fall  among  cannibals  or  into 
the  A.E.F.,  you  are  rarely  obliged  to  outrage 
your  palate.  As  for  rubbing  elbows  with  the 
crowd,  I  for  one  have  seldom  rubbed  an  elbow 
that  did  not  give  me  an  interesting  wireless  mes- 
sage, revealing  things  about  the  owner's  person- 
ality that  he  perhaps  did  not  himself  know. 
[  129  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

But  as  for  the  chap  who  whistles  between  his 
teeth,  or  sings  out  of  tune,  or  twangs  a  degen- 
erate guitar  with  wire-loose  strings  in  the  next 
bed  for  twelve  hours  a  day,  while  expressing  in 
a  cracked  voice  a  Freudian  wish  for  "a  girl  just 
like  the  girl  that  married  dear  old  dad"  —  it  is 
passing  hard  for  the  musician  to  keep  on  loving 
him  in  the  fraternal  manner  recommended  by 
"Leaves  of  Grass."  Fiddlers  and  such  are  out 
of  luck. 

This  fact  used  to  sadden  me  until  I  happened 
to  stumble  one  day  upon  the  poem  in  which 
Whitman  tried  to  write  in  a  sophisticated  man- 
ner about  the  art  of  music.  There  I  found  him 
lavishing  his  praises  upon  "  Italians  peerless 
compositions,"  especially  "the  trombone  duo" 
in  "Ernani,"  and  discovered  that  those  third- 
raters  Rossini  and  Meyerbeer  were  just  about 
Walt's  top  speed  in  a  musical  manner  of  speak- 
ing. That  discovery  made  me  easier  in  my 
mind.  Anybody  who  felt  thus  would  naturally 
experience  no  diflBculty  in  pouring  out  un- 
stinted floods  of  love  upon  the  man  who  for 
[  130  ] 


ATLANTIC   AND   TOOTH-PASTE 

twelve  hours  a  day  audibly  yearned  for  a  girl 
according  to  Freud.  But  there  was  evidently 
something  wrong  with  the  good  gray  poet's 
ears. 

Personally,  I  do  not  beheve  that  he  was 
very  much  more  musical  than  a  certain  one  of 
the  nine  directors  of  the  late  Pittsburgh  Sym- 
phony Orchestra.  The  orchestra  was  giving  a 
summer  concert  at  the  country  club,  while  this 
gentleman  was  entertaining  a  party  of  friends, 
and  they  found  some  difficulty  in  making  them- 
selves heard  above  the  sounds  of  the  sym- 
phony. He  called  the  waiter  at  length,  and  said: 
"Waiter,  go  to  Mr.  Bernthaler,  the  man  who 
is  waving  the  stick  up  there,  and  tell  him  to 
play  in  a  minor  key  so  we  can  hear  each  other 
talk." 

I  think  this  gentleman  would  have  fitted 
admirably  into  old  Walt's  democratic  Utopia. 
To  be  a  really  hearty  Whitmaniac  you  either 
must  have  rather  blunt  senses,  or  the  power 
to  disregard  the  superficial,  and,  by  an  act  of 
divination,  pierce  far  below  the  surface  and 
[  131  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

appreciate  the  essential  truth,  goodness,  and 
beauty  hidden  there.  Only,  if  you  are  anything 
of  a  musician,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  see  beauty 
beneath  ugliness  than  to  hear  it! 

Therefore,  when  the  medical  major  crowned 
his  royal  gift  of  tooth-paste,  et  cetera,  by  lend- 
ing me  his  room  and  his  oil  stove,  it  was  passing 
pleasant  to  escape  suddenly  into  the  possibility 
of  resuming  my  old  habits  of  quiet  reflection 
—  to  evoke  my  auto-comrade  again,  and  after 
shaking  him  cordially  by  the  hand  and  slap- 
ping him  on  the  back,  find  out  what  he  had 
been  up  to  all  this  time  since  I  entered  Platts- 
burg  and  gave  him  the  go-by. 

Sometimes  the  major  would  drop  in  for  a  few 
moments  of  chat  between  his  tireless  rounds, 
and  we  would  talk  real  talk.  Whenever  I  began 
to  thank  him  for  his  kindness  he  would  always 
shut  me  up  in  a  determined  and  flattering  man- 
ner, saying  that  he  was  an  "Atlantic"  reader 
and  had  to  get  even  with  me  for  various  pleas- 
ant quarters  of  an  hour. 

Before  long,  when  I  could  walk  two  hun- 
[  132  ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

dred  yards,  the  major  told  me  to  go  and 
consult  the  ear  doctor  in  the  neighboring  hos- 
pital. 

"But,"  I  objected,  "there's  nothing  wrong 
with  my  ears." 

The  major  over-rode  me. 

"Yes,  there  is!  As  your  superior  officer  I 
command  you  to  see  Lieutenant  P.  and  tell 
him  you  play  the  'cello.  He'll  give  you  some- 
thing that  will  help  you." 

So  I  made  my  way,  in  a  puzzled  state,  over 
to  Base  Thirty-Five  and  sat  around  in  Lieu- 
tenant F.'s  clinic  and  watched  him  do  com- 
phcated  and  skillful  things  to  the  ears  of  many 
a  doughboy.  Finally  he  said: 

"Now,  Loot,  I'll  treat  you." 

I  eyed  his  murderous  array  of  cutlery  with 
considerable  conservatism.  But,  instead  of  cut- 
ting me  up,  he  took  off  his  apron,  washed  his 
hands,  and  led  the  way  to  his  sleeping-quarters. 
The  first  thing  I  saw  there  showed  me  how 
the  Ear  Man  was  going  to  treat  me.  It  was  a 
'cello  that  dangled  by  the  neck  from  a  nail  in 
[  133  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

the  door,  like  the  spy  that  the  surgeon  major 
had  not  taken  me  for. 

I  fell  upon  it  with  loud,  carnivorous  cries. 
The  Ear  Man  immediately  produced  a  flute 
fron  the  bureau  drawer;  and  we  began,  without 
a  second's  hesitation,  on  that  time-honored 
duet  known  as  Titl's  "Serenade." 

When  the  Ear  Man's  wind  failed,  I  recalled 
the  fact  that  I  had  breathed  practically  my 
first  infant  breath  into  the  flute.  So  we  swapped 
instruments  and  did  "La  Paloma."  By  this 
time  we  had  amassed  a  large  and  encouraging 
audience  of  medical  men  in  the  little  room 
and  they  demanded  a  program  ranging  all  the 
way  from  "Just  a  Baby's  Prayer  at  Twilight" 
to  "Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,"  which  last 
selection,  I  impolitely  pointed  out  to  them, 
might  more  appropriately  be  played  to  their 
patients. 

All  this  time  my  subconsciousness  was  busy 

with  the  fact  that  I  had  not  touched  a  'cello 

since  before  the  flood.  I  enjoyed  the  pleasantly 

piquant  contrast  between  the  feel  of  barbed 

[  134  ] 


ATLANTIC   AND   TOOTH-PASTE 

wire  and  automatic  triggers  and  the  more  novel 
but  agreeable  texture  of  wire  strings  and  a 
'cello  bow. 

Mess-call  sounding,  the  audience  insisted 
that  we  adjourn  with  our  instruments  and 
serenade  the  assembled  oflScers.  The  incident 
turned  out  to  be  all  the  more  enjoyable  when 
the  commandant  of  "Thirty-Five"  discovered 
that  he  was  a  friend  of  my  eldest  brother,  the 
medical  corps  colonel,  and  informed  me  that 
this  brother  had  recently  arrived  in  France 
and  was  stationed  only  sixty  kilometers  away. 

Then  I  hobbled  across  the  railroad  tracks 
with  the  Ear  Man's  *cello.  The  medical  major 
beamed  when  he  saw  it. 

"Ah,  that 's  what  my  nurses  are  keen  to  hear. 
I've  told  them  about  you  and  the  treatment  I 
prescribed.  Won't  you  play  to  them  to-night 
at  their  club?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you'll  accompany  me." 

The  kind  major's  face  fell  an  octave. 

"Three  of  my  poor  boys  are  probably  going 
West  before  morning.  I  can't  possibly  leave 
[  135] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

them.  But  did  n't  I  hear  you  say  that  you  had 
found  a  pianist  in  your  ward?" 

I  had,  indeed!  It  had  come  about  in  this 
way:  In  a  bed  halfway  down  the  hall  lay  a 
captain  from  my  own  regiment.  One  after- 
noon I  had  heard  somebody  whistling  Chopin 
softly  to  himself,  and  whistling  it  excellently 
well.  I  sat  up  and  traced  the  sound  to  Cap- 
tain V.  Then  I  whistled  an  answering  strain. 
He  was  as  surprised  as  I  had  been. 

To  offset  the  tedium  of  hospital  life  we  de- 
veloped a  musical  contest  of  sorts.  One  of  us 
would  start  a  melody,  and  if  the  other  one  could 
not  take  it  up  wherever  it  stopped,  the  starter 
would  score  one.  If  he  could,  however,  he  got 
the  jump  on  the  other  fellow.  The  officers  in 
the  intervening  bunks  disregarded  our  soft 
pipings  as  things  foreign  to  their  natures. 

But  one  day,  when  one  of  us  was  scoring 
heavily  on  a  Brahms  symphony,  a  pair  of  lips 
at  the  far  end  of  the  ward  took  up  the  tale  with 
elegance  and  precision.  The  captain  and  I 
jerked  our  heads  about  in  surprise,  and  dis- 
[  136  ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

covered  this  unexpected  source  of  Brahms  to 
be  Major  W.,  ranking  patient  of  the  ward,  the 
man  with  the  shrapnel  hole  in  his  hip. 

In  high  excitement  I  pulled  on  bathrobe  and 
slippers  and  made  my  way  down  the  aisle. 
After  half  an  hour's  conversation  I  knew  that  I 
had  discovered  a  musical  amateur  twenty-one 
karats  fine.  His  memory  for  melodies  was  all- 
compendious;  his  taste  was  like  refined  gold, 
and  he  played  the  piano. 

He  had  played  almost  everything  in  chamber 
music.  Of  course,  I  would  not  know  how  well 
he  played  until  I  heard  him  put  finger  to  key. 
As  far  as  untried  pianists  were  concerned  I  had 
outlived  the  period  when  the  wish  was  father 
to  the  belief.  I  was  no  longer  such  a  radiant 
optimist  as  the  penniless  man  who  entered  the 
best  restaurant  in  town  and  ordered  a  sump- 
tuous dinner,  with  champagne  and  several  other 
wines,  hoping  to  find  in  one  of  the  oysters  a 
pearl  that  would  pay  the  check.  A  long  series  of 
disillusioning  experiences,  beginning  with  Pris- 
cilla,  had  reduced  my  credulity  to  the  vanish- 
[  137] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

ing  point.  It  had  taught  me  that  ninety-nine 
pianists  out  of  every  hundred  play  the  mouth- 
organ  better  than  they  do  the  piano.  But  of 
course  there  was  always  the  chance  that  Major 
W.  might  prove  to  be  number  100.  He  did. 

When  I  came  to  him  that  evening  and 
showed  him  the  Ear  Man's  'cello  and  said  that 
the  nurses  were  keen  for  some  music,  and  did 
he  feel  able  to  get  as  far  as  the  club  and  accom- 
pany me  a  bit,  he  painfully  dragged  on  his 
clothes,  crowned  all  with  a  leathern  jerkin  (for 
his  very  blouse  had  been  stolen  by  some  am- 
bulance driver  who  was  no  respecter  of  rank), 
and  we  hobbled  forth  through  the  deep  mud 
for  which  the  Mars  Hospital  Center  was 
notorious. 

Before  I  had  time  to  strip  oflF  the  Ear  Man's 
'cello's  overcoat,  Major  W.  lurched  at  the  keys 
like  a  starving  man  at  a  Thanksgiving  dinner 
—  and  the  heavens  were  opened.  What  was 
that  wonderful  piece  he  was  playing?  It  began 
like  a  sort  of  cross  between  Ropartz  and  Reger. 
But  after  a  few  bars  I  could  have  sworn  that  it 
[  138  ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

was  some  master  work  of  Franck  that  had 
somehow  escaped  my  ears  until  that  moment. 
Pretty  soon  it  sounded  like  a  great  but  im- 
known  piece  by  Bach,  and  then  it  turned  into 
a  mighty  four-part  fugue  such  as  Beethoven 
ought  to  have  written,  but  never  got  around  to. 

"What  on  earth  is  that?"  I  half  shouted 
when  the  major  crashed  the  final  chord. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  thing  that  occurred  to  me." 

I  gasped. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  improvised  it?" 

I  had  heard  it  said  that  there  was  only  one 
musician  alive  who  could  improvise  really  well, 
and  he  always  improvised  on  the  same  theme. 
But  this  revelation  was  beginning  to  make  me 
doubt  it. 

"Yes,"  said  he  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"Now,  let's  have  a  look  at  your  music." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  until  then,  but 
there  was  no  music. 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  major.  "What  are 
a  few  printed  sheets  between  friends?  Let's 
find  out  what  the  audience  would  like  to  hear." 
[  139  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

The  head  nurse  said:  "The  Bach  Air  in  D, 
Major/'  and  the  major  played  that  exacting 
accompaniment  out  of  his  head  with  a  caress- 
ing, dehcate  touch  and  a  meticulous  exactitude 
which  showed  me  that  he  was  the  fabulous 
golden  accompanist  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow, 
and  that  I  had  at  length  caught  up  to  him. 

A  tall  blonde  insisted  on  being  carried  back- 
to  old  Virginny,  and  the  major  variegated  the 
journey  with  new  and  richer  harmonies,  and  a 
playfully  contrapuntal  bass. 

Then  the  good  angel  we  affectionately 
termed  "The  Corporal,"  she  who  had  given  us 
that  memorable  bath  when  we  emerged  from 
the  cattle-car  encrusted  with  all  the  strata  of 
geologic  France,  demanded  Wagner.  And  we 
rendered  right  lustily  Siegfried's  Rhine  Jour- 
ney, the  Grail  Procession,  the  Good  Friday 
Spell,  Siegmimd's  Love  Song  and  a  large  part 
of  the  "Tannhauser"  and  "Meistersinger" 
overtures. 

To  please  little  Miss  Fluflfy  RuflBies,  we  co- 
quetted with  Dvorak's  "Humoresque,"  while 
[  140  ] 


ATLANTIC    AND    TOOTH-PASTE 

the  major  found  extra  fingers  enough  to  render 
"The  Old  Folks  at  Home"  at  the  same  time  — 
jin  excellently  successful  musical  marriage. 

Then,  after  doing  a  lot  of  the  third  Beetho- 
ven sonata  at  the  request  of  that  very  creative 
listener,  the  surgeon  major,  who  had  dropped 
in  during  the  marriage  ceremony,  we  played 
nearly  all  the  works  of  Stephen  Foster  and  the 
allied  national  airs,  not  even  forgetting  poor 
Russia,  my  colleague  improvising  the  while  the 
most  stunningly  florid,  figurated  basses  and  the 
most  gorgeous  new  harmonies  that  a  national 
air  ever  tried  on  like  an  Easter  bonnet. 

Thereupon  the  surgeon  major  sternly  drove 
us  to  bed,  on  the  principle  that  casualties 
must  not  get  over-ambitious.  And  he  actually 
insisted  on  carrying  that  'cello  with  his  own 
hands  back  through  the  mud  to  the  Ear  Man. 
He  declared  that  he  felt  so  jubilant  over  meet- 
ing up  with  fiddler's  magic  again  after  all  those 
months  that,  were  it  not  for  the  geography  of 
the  pianist's  wound  and  my  own,  he  would  feel 
like  shouting: 

[141] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

"Hip,  hip,  hooray!" 

And  thus  it  was  that  my  old  friend  the 
*' Atlantic"  when  things  came  to  the  pinch, 
procured  me:  tooth-paste,  solitude,  a  sweater, 
companionship,  socks,  and  fiddler's  magic. 


A 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOBBLES  WITH  A  'CELLO 

FEW  days  after  this,  the  medical  major, 
bless  his  kind  heart!  came  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  my  cot  in  the  hospital  and 
whispered: 

"IVe  just  happened  to  find  out  that  the 
commanding  oflScer  of  this  hospital  group  is  an 
enthusiastic  musical  amateur  and  wants  to 
hear  you  play." 

"All  right;  only  you  know  what  the  Ear 
Man's  'cello  is  like/' 

"The  CO.  has  a  scheme.  As  the  dwarf  in 
the  William  J.  Locke  book  might  say,  he  has 
evolved  a  *  gigantic  combination.'" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Well,  some  members  of  the  French  Homes 
movement  in  an  old  provincial  city  only  a  few 
hours  from  here  are  going  to  establish  a  club 
for  wounded  American  oflScers.  They  have 
taken  over  the  best  clubhouse  in  town,  and 
[  143] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

the  inmates  will  pay  for  rooms  and  breakfasts 
there  and  will  lunch  and  dine  themselves  in 
the  hotel  hard-by.  I  understand  that  there's 
a  Stradivarius  'cello  in  the  city." 

"Sounds  agreeable." 

"It  does.  The  CO.  suggests  that,  as  soon 
as  your  wound  allows,  it  would  be  jolly  if  you 
picked  out  three  or  four  of  your  most  congenial 
friends  here  and  went  over  on  convalescent 
leave,  as  the  first  incumbents  of  this  new  old 
soldiers'  home,  to  start  things.  Then  you  might 
get  hold  of  that  Strad,  and  the  CO.  and  I 
would  run  over  some  fine  afternoon  and  hear 
the  results." 

This  made  easy  listening.  It  was  a  "gigantic 
combination  "  which  would  appeal  to  the  higher 
instincts  of  any  musical  vagabond  on  earth. 
Accordingly  I  sounded  the  improvising  major 
and  the  whistling  captain  and  a  couple  of  lieu- 
tenant friends  of  the  creative  listener  variety. 
They  all  thought  as  highly  of  the  combination 
as  I  did.  It  would,  indeed,  be  a  welcome  change 
from  the  monotonous  mud  and  the  monotonous 
[  144  ] 


HOBBLES    WITH    A    'CELLO 

fare  and  the  monotonous  drab  featurelessness 
of  hospital  life,  even  though  we  had  been  more 
fortunate  than  all  other  casualties  by  reason  of 
having  landed  in  the  Chicago  University  Unit. 

We  airily  waved  aside  the  two  majors'  part- 
ing injunctions  not  to  tire  ourselves  out.  When 
we  arrived  in  the  great  hall  of  the  club  with  the 
open  fire  and  the  billiard  table  and  the  piano 
and  the  warm-hearted  French  ladies,  we  would 
have  executed  a  jubilant  jig  if  we  had  been 
foot-free.  The  improvising  major  flung  himself 
down  on  the  piano  stool  in  his  leathern  jerkin 
and  improvised  a  psean  of  relief  and  rejoicing 
which  seemed  at  the  time,  and  still  seems  in 
retrospect,  a  worthy  companion  to  Beethoven's 
•'Hymn  to  Joy." 

True  to  my  inflexible  principles  whenever  I 
enter  a  strange  city,  'celloless,  and  with  time 
on  my  hands,  I  at  once  asked  our  extremely 
gracious  and  aristocratic  arch-hostess  if  she 
knew  who  owned  the  best  'cello  in  town,  and 
mentioned  the  rumor  about  the  Strad. 

"I  regret,  monsieur ^^^  she  replied,  "the 
[  145  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Stradivarius  has  departed  since  four  years. 
But  if  you  will  come  with  me  I  shall  find  you  a 
good  violoncello." 

She  led  the  way  down  a  crooked  little  street 
and  knocked  at  a  door.  It  was  flung  open  by 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  woman  with  large, 
mournful,  mysterious  eyes  and  a  halo  of  frizzy 
black  hair. 

"Here,"  explained  my  hostess  with  a  certain 
condescension,  "is  an  American  oflScer  who 
desires  for  the  time  being  an  Italian  'cello  to 
make  music  on." 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Madame  R.  politely,  "to 
les  Arrdricains  we  can  deny  nothing!" 

She  ushered  me  through  her  music-room  into 
a  small  alcove.  There,  sitting  solenmly  up 
around  the  walls  in  their  black  coflSns,  I  beheld 
not  one,  but  a  whole  family  of  'cellos. 

"Select  which  you  desire,  monsieur  J* 

I  said  that  she  was  thrice  amiable,  tried  all 
the  family  and  picked  out  a  splendid  old  Ital- 
ian, mellow  and  sonorous,  that  responded  with 
enthusiasm  to  the  lightest  touch  of  the  bow. 
[  146] 


HOBBLES   WITH   A    TELLO 

"Is  there  any  music  in  town?" 

The  fairy  godmother  threw  open  a  huge  cup- 
board built  into  the  wall.  I  gasped  with  the 
magnitude  of  my  good  fortune.  There  lay  prac- 
tically the  whole  literature  of  the  'cello. 

"Take  what  you  willT'  urged  Madame. 

On  that  I  remembered  Major  W.'s  health. 
Immediately  after  his  improvisation  he  had 
gone  to  bed  with  symptoms  suspiciously  like 
those  of  "flu."  Six  hours  on  the  front  seat  of 
an  ambulance  in  a  raw  wind  had  not  made  an 
auspicious  start  for  his  convalescence.  I  knew, 
for  I  had  sat  beside  him.  He  must  not  be  over- 
taxed. I  felt  that  French  hospitality,  combined 
with  reading  at  sight  a  few  of  these  difficult 
modem  sonatas  for  'cello  and  piano,  might  lay 
him  out  horizontally  for  a  long  period. 

"Now,"  I  inquired,  "is  there,  by  good  for- 
tune, any  pianist  in  town  who  can  play  these 
things?" 

Madame  sank  upon  the  piano  stool  and  at 
once  began  to  play  like  an  angel  who  had  stud- 
ied with  all  the  best  masters.  It  was  the  most 
[  147] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

heavenly  piece  that  has  ever  been  written  for 
the  piano,  the  Prelude,  Aria,  and  Finale  of 
Cesar  Franck. 

When  she  was  through  I  shook  her  by  the 
hand  with  what  would  have  been  tears  if  I  had 
not  been  an  Anglo-Saxon,  and  humbly  begged 
the  privilege  of  doing  a  sonata  with  her  some 
time. 

"Why  not  to-night?"  said  she,  as  one  to 
whom  all  things  were  possible. 

And  I  came.  Never  before  or  since  have  I 
played  with  a  pianist  who  possessed  the  secret 
of  French  chamber  music  as  Madame  R.  pos- 
sessed it.  And  the  sportsmanship  of  her!  There 
was  this  brave  woman,  this  great  artist,  strug- 
gling with  fate  in  the  thick  obscurity  of  the 
provinces,  teaching  young  children  the  piano 
at  three  depreciated  franqs  an  hour,  in  order 
to  support  her  own  three  little  ones,  while  her 
'cellist  husband  drove  an  artillery  camion  at 
the  front. 

So  remarkable  was  her  talent  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  known  all  over  the  civilized  world. 
[  148  ] 


HOBBLES    WITH    A    'CELLO 

And  yet  she  insisted  on  giving  up  two  hours* 
worth  of  pupils  each  day  so  that  she  might 
play  sonatas,  in  inter-allied  gratitude,  with 
the  officier  americain.  And  she  steadfastly  and 
proudly  resisted  all  offers  to  put  things  upon  a 
professional  basis  and  let  me  pay  her. 

"One  does  not  take  money  from  one's  al- 
lies!" she  exclaimed. 

After  some  of  the  recent  experiences  of  the 
A.E.P.  this  sentiment  had  a  somewhat  original 
and  quixotic  sound.  But  then,  she  was  a  musi- 
cian. And  musicians,  and  people  like  that,  I 
have  been  told,  are  always  a  bit  queer. 

The  third  day  I  took  to  a  bed  beside  the 
major.  The  good  ladies  of  the  French  Homes 
Committee  had  been  so  solicitous  that  we 
should  have  a  good,  sociable,  edifying  time, 
that,  what  with  dinners,  teas,  and  personally 
conducted  tours  of  the  town,  the  cathedral,  and 
the  art  museum,  they  had  almost  killed  us  with 
kindness.  But  from  the  vantage-ground  of  bed, 
it  was  possible  to  arrange  for  a  concert  on  the 
last  day  of  our  stay,  when  the  CO.  and  the 
[  149  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

good  medical  major  would  run  over  for  a  little 
music. 

They  ran.  I  emerged  from  bed  to  play  a 
couple  of  pieces  and  crawl  back  whence  I  came. 
But  not  before  the  CO.  had  murmured  in  my 
ear  that  I  was  to  make  up  for  lost  time  by 
spending  another  week  in  the  Cercle  Americain. 

In  a  couple  of  days,  more  fortunate  than  the 
improvising  major  who  only  exchanged  bed  for 
ambulance,  I  arose  and  resumed  my  researches 
into  French  chamber  music  with  Madame  R. 
It  was  then  that  the  aristocratic  committee 
sought  to  induce  me  to  change  pianists. 
Though,  as  they  said,  they  knew  very  little 
about  music,  they  held  strong  views  as  to  what 
was  right  and  proper  in  every  sphere  of  human 
activity.  They  did  not  quite  approve  of  one  of 
their  Americans  fiddling. indiscriminately  out- 
side of  their  own  set,  when  they  were  able  to 
provide  him  with  musical  companions  whose 
ancient  lineage,  commanding  position  in  soci- 
ety, and  historic  musical  aflSliations  rendered 
them  more  desirable  to  consort  with  than 
I  150  ] 


HOBBLES   WITH   A    'CELLO 

people  who  could  merely  play  well.  They  were 
not  so  sure  about  Madame  R.  even  playing 
well.  They  felt  that,  as  this  hard-working 
artist  did  not,  like  themselves,  live  and  move 
and  have  her  being  exclusively  among  the  no- 
bility, her  performances  could  not  be  quite  up 
to  the  mark. 

Finally  they  put  down  their  highly  arched 
feet  and  decreed  that  I  was  to  play  trios  with 
a  young  marquis  who  condescended  to  toy 
with  the  fiddle,  and  a  duchess  who  had  once 
been  a  pupil  of  Cesar  Franck.  This  fact  alone, 
they  plainly  felt,  would  prove  clearly  that  she 
was  musically  far  superior  to  Madame  R. 

I  inquired  whether  this  lady  possessed  the 
rare  art  of  playing  piano  on  the  piano. 

*Xertainly!  Is  she  not  a  pupil  of  C^sar 
Franck?" 

"Because,"  I  warned  them,  "I  am  aflSicted 
with  a  besetting  sin.  When  a  pianist  becomes 
too  muscular  and  persists  in  pounding,  I  am  all 
too  apt  to  address  her  in  firm  and  uncompro- 
mising language.  I  fear  that  I  have  a  slight 
[151] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

neurosis  in  connection  with  noisy  pianists,  be- 
cause I  have  suffered  such  things  at  their 
hands."  Of  course  I  was  thinking  of  my  un- 
happy affair  with  Priscilla,  with  the  heart- 
sickness  which  that  memory  always  gave  me. 
Why  could  n't  I  forget  her? 

"'Have  no  misgivings,"  they  responded. 
"She  is  a  pupil  .  .  ." 

Constrained  by  the  obligations  of  guestpital- 
ity,  I  went,  as  in  duty  bound,  but  with  an  ea- 
gerness made  dubious  by  long  experience.  The 
marquis  was  an  adequate  fiddler  enough,  who 
played  out  of  tune  only  during  the  more  diffi- 
cult passages.  The  duchess  was  gracious  and 
could  not  have  been  more  aristocratic  without 
serious  consequences  to  her  vertebrae. 

She  told  authentic  reminiscences  of  Franck, 
and  showed  how  her  old  master  used  to  come 
in  out  of  the  streets  of  Paris  to  give  her  a  lesson, 
and  would  always  hold  out  both  his  hands  to 
be  massaged  by  her  into  warmth  and  supple- 
ness before  sitting  down  to  the  piano. 

I  felt  that  the  adventure  looked  promising. 
[  152] 


HOBBLES    WITH   A    'CELLO 

The  lady  really  had  studied  with  that  great 
master.  She  must  be  a  wonder. 

Then  she  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  we  began 
the  soft  opening  of  a  Mendelssohn  trio. 

Ye  gods!  What  were  those  loud,  strident 
sounds?  I  started  painfully  and  glanced  around 
at  the  duchess.  The  veins  in  her  neck  and  mus- 
cular arms  were  standing  out  with  exertion. 
She  was  putting  her  back  into  the  pianissimo 
music.  Halfway  measures  evidently  did  not 
appeal  to  this  pupil  of  Franck.  Worst  of  all,  her 
right  foot  was  planted  solidly,  as  if  for  all  time, 
on  the  sustaining  pedal,  so  that  the  different 
chords  "ran'*  like'the  hues  of  guaranteed^fast- 
color  pyjamas  when  they  first  enter  the  wash- 
tub. 

''PianOy  if  you  please,"  I  suggested  in  the 
well-bred  voice  current  in  aristocratic  circles. 

The  duchess  caught  my  eye,  nodded  and 
smiled  brightly  —  and  kept  on  putting  her 
back  —  and  her  foot  —  into  it. 

I  began  to  lose  control.  Devastating  memo- 
ries of  the  many  things  I  had  suffered  from 
[  153] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

pounding  pianists  swept  over  me,  and  of  my 
countless  vows  of  "never  again!"  The  rear 
wheels  of  my  temper  began  to  skid.  The  duch- 
ess's playing  possessed  no  pleasing  qualities 
that  could  help  atone  for  the  horrors  of  its 
blurry  volume.  Her  performance  was  stiff  as  a 
poker,  yet  with  none  of  a  poker's  occasional 
warmth. 

^^PianOy  I  beg  of  you!''  My  intonation  was 
now  that  of  the  bourgeoisie.  The  lady  nodded, 
took  a  firmer  grip  than'ever  with  her  foot,  and 
held  on  with  determination.  She  sounded  less 
like  Mendelssohn  than  the  Homestead  rolling- 
mills. 

^^  Shssssssss  1  Pianissimo  r^  I  roared  in  the 
coarse  accents  of  the  proletariat,  though  scarcely 
making  myself  heard  above  the  tumult. 

**  Certainly,  monsieur y^  screamed  the  female 
Samson,  exerting  her  last  ounce  of  strength  on 
the  keys  and  treading  so  heavily  on  that  ex- 
crescence which  I  know  it  is  vulgar  to  call  the 
loud  pedal,  but  which  I  really  must  be  par- 
doned for  so  calling,  this  once  —  treading  on 
[  154  1 


HOBBLES    WITH    A    'CELLO 

it,  I  say,  with  such  an  elephantine  finality  that 
I  began  to  entertain  hopes  of  her  putting  it  out 
of  commission. 

At  last  I  understood  why  poor,  dear  old 
Papa  Franck  was  represented  by  all  his  biog- 
raphers as  having  so  much  hardship  to  bear  — 
as  so  awfully  harassed  and  tired  out  and  gen- 
erally pulled  down  by  all  the  miscellaneous 
piano  lessons  he  had  to  rush  about  Paris  and 
give.  I  shuddered  as  I  imagined  the  kindly  old 
master's  struggles  against  the  self-satisfaction 
of  the  duchess,  which,  in  its  boundless  sublim- 
ity, reminded  me  of  George  Sylvester  Viereck, 
the  poet  who,  it  is  said,  regards  Shakespeare  as 
a  premature  Viereck. 

The  duchess  had  evidently  taken  as  her  dy- 
namic motto,  the  watchword  of  Ibsen's  hero, 
"Brand'':  "Everything  or  nothing!"  That  en- 
tire  afternoon,  everything  was  fortissimo  that 
came  to  her  mill.  Her  foot,  planted  firmly  as 
the  left  fore  hoof  of  General  Sherman's  bronze 
horse  in  the  Plaza,  New  York  City,  never  once 
quitted  the  loud  pedal. 

[  155  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

With  huge  relief  I  returned  to  the  unforget- 
table little  music-room  where  the  family  of 
'cello  coflSns  stood  solemnly  about  in  the 
alcove  regarding  their  mistress,  who,  though 
not  so  far-famed  among  the  nobility,  still  pos- 
sessed a  private  key  to  music's  holiest  of  holies,  ; 
and  introduced  me  into  that  magic  shrine  every 
day  until  I  returned  to  the  hospital. 

But  for  long  afterwards,  in  those  recurrent 
nightmares  which  are  the  heritage  of  so  many 
members  of  the  A.E.r.,  I  saw  the  duchess 
with  Her  aristocratic  hoof  planted  for  all  time 
on  the  burning  pedal  whence  all  but  she  had 
fled. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  IN  PARIS  — 

I  RETURNED  to  the  mud  of  Mars  with  a 
large  armful  of  borrowed  music.  And  at 
last  I  had  the  pleasure  of  playing  the  Franck 
sonata  with  the  good,  kind  medical  major  in 
the  hospital  officers'  club.  Heaven  be  praised! 
he  did  not  play  like  a  pupil  of  Franck  at  all,  but 
had  a  self-denying  right  foot  and  operated  the 
music  machine  delicately  and  rapidly  by  the 
touch  system,  like  the  true  musician  and  true 
sport  and  regular  fellow  that  he  was.  We 
planned  to  play  it  for  the  nurses  after  another 
rehearsal  or  so. 

Meanwhile,  among  the  enhsted  men  of  the 
hospital  I  found  two  violinists  and  a  viola 
player  who  was  a  talented  young  composer  and 
a  student  at  Yale  for  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Music. 

We  used  to  foregather  in  the  medical  major's 
room,  grouped  close  about  the  oil  stove,  which 
[  157] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

we  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  admirable  in- 
stitutions in  Mars.  And  when  we  arrived  at 
a  certain  pitch  of  perfection  with  a  Beethoven 
minuet  or  a  Mozart  Andante,  we  would  pick 
up  our  fiddles  and  our  stands  and  adjourn  to 
one  of  the  wards  to  see  whether  the  patients 
liked  "deep  stuflf"  better  than  ragtime  on  the 
eternal  phonograph.  They  usually  did. 

Any  time  now,  I  expected  to  be  discharged 
from  hospital  and  sent  back  to  the  firing-line, 
for  I  no  longer  needed  a  stick,  or  even  a  *cello, 
to  aid  locomotion.  Every  day  or  two  I  would 
ask  one  of  the  majors  when  he  thought  I  could 
go  back,  and  he  would  answer  in  an  encourag- 
ing but  evasive  manner. 

Finally,  one  day,  the  medical  major  ap- 
proached me  waving  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
grinning. 

"Sign  here.  Lieutenant,"  he  said  in  the  best 
sergeant-major  style. 

I  looked  it  over.  It  was  an  application  for 
a  long  convalescent  leave  to  Nice!  I  began  to 
protest,  but  he  cut  me  short. 
[  158  0/i 


WHEN    IN   PARIS  — 

"Now,  then,  that  sort  of  talk  is  no  good. 
You've  been  well  shaken  up,  and  you'll  not  be 
fit  to  work  for  a  long  time  yet.  Why  is  n't  it 
better  for  you  to  pull  yourself  together  down 
on  the  Riviera,  out  of  all  this  mud  and  rain  and 
fog  and  away  from  all  the  germs,  than  to  stick 
around  Mars  and  catch  the  flu?  Sign  here,  you 
idiot!  And,  by  the  way,  the  nurses  insist  on  our 
playing  for  them  next  Monday  night.'* 

That  concert,  though,  was  forever  averted  by 
somethiag  a  headquarters  orderly  mentioned 
in  the  ward  on  Monday  morning,  just  as  the 
daily  wound-dressings  began.  A  premonitory 
thrill  flew  down  the  long  hall  as  the  orderly 
cleared  his  throat  and  read: 

"The  commanding  oiBScer  has  just  received 
the  following  oflBcial  telegram:  *  Firing  will 
cease  on  all  fronts  at  eleven  o'clock  this 
morning.'" 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  tense,  eloquent  silence 
that  followed  this  bald  statement,  or  the  look 
in  all  those  eyes? 

That  evening  the  nurses  gathered  for  the 
:  159  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

concert.  But  we,  the  performers,  felt  that  this 
was  not  at  all  the  right  moment  in  the  world's 
history  to  sit  down  and  pay  quiet  attention  to 
high-brow  music.  We  might  be  musical,  but 
we  were  only  human. 

We  commandeered  two  large  army  trucks, 
gathered  together  a  couple  of  squads  of  able- 
bodied  officers  for  chaperons,  and  took  the 
nurses  in  to  the  city  of  Nevers  to  see  the  cele- 
bration. 

Nevers  evidently  had  been  looking  upon  the 
wine  when  it  was  red  ever  since  11  a.m.,  and 
had  seen  that  it  was  good,  and  had  looked  upon 
it  some  more.  There  may^have  been  one  sober 
citizen  in  town,  but  we  did  not  see  him.  And 
never  did  two  truckloads  of  Americans  have  a 
more  appreciative  and  responsive  audience 
than  the  packed  streets  of  Nevers  for  the  inter- 
allied chansons  which  we  delivered  at  the  tops  of 
our  voices  until  our  voices  burst  their  tops  off. 

The  next  afternoon,  the  documents  in  re  the 
leave  to  Nice  arrived.  I  felt  better  about  taking 
advantage  of  it,  now  that  the  war  was  out  of 
[  160] 


WHEN    IN    PARIS  — 

the  way.  There  was  just  time  to  partake  of  the 
glorious  champagne  dinner  to  which  the  medi- 
cal major  (may  his  name  be  ever  green!) 
treated  our  ward.  And  then  I  packed  my  entire 
wardrobe  in  my  little  musette  bag  and  started 
with  a  high  heart  for  Paris. 

Why  Paris?  All  roads  are  said  to  lead  to 
Rome.  This  did  not  hold  true  in  the  A.E.F. 
There  all  roads  led  to  Paris. 

In  order  to  get  from  any  one  part  of  France 
to  any  other  part  of  the  world  whatsoever,  it 
was  the  fixed  creed  of  the  A.E.P.  that  you  were 
sure  to  save  time  and  trouble  and  increase  your 
satisfaction  with  life  —  and  your  legitimate 
expenditures  —  if  you  went  there  via  the  most 
agreeable  city  in  existence.  Far  was  it  from  me 
to  shatter  an  army  tradition!  Besides,  I  was 
curious  to  see  how  the  Grands  Boulevards  were 
taking  the  most  joyous  event  in  history. 

They  did  not  disappoint  me.  They  —  but 
there!  How  they  sang  and  danced  and  hurled 
confetti  and  rocked  taxicabs  oflf  their  founda- 
tions and  dragged  German  ordnance  frantically 
[  161  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

all  over  the  place,  and  paraded  and  formed 
dancing  rings  about  every  doughboy  so  that  he 
had  to  kiss  his  way  out,  and  how  they  waylaid 
and  embraced  every  American  oflScer  five  hun- 
dred times  a  day  —  is  it  not  written  in  the 
books  of  the  chronicles  of  the  A.E.F.? 

So,  because  this  is  no  war  tale,  I  pass  rapidly 
to  the  middle  of  that  first  afternoon  when  I 
had  been  taking  a  brief  vacation  from  the 
frenzy  of  the  Grands  Boulevards  in  order  to 
revisit  some  of  the  bright  haunts  of  my  early 
musical  youth.  I  was  just  leaving  a  quarter 
closely  identified  with  old  chamber-music  par- 
ties as  jolly  as  any  of  the  parties  in  Du  Man- 
ner's "Trilby,"  and  was  still  wrapped  in  a  ten- 
der melancholy  by  my  discovery  that  the  won- 
derful old  music-room  was  now  a  phonograph 
shop  —  when  I  noticed  a  little  group  of  ^irls 
waiting  for  a  car.  The  youngest,  a  child  of  ten, 
carried  a  violin.  Auspicious  omen  in  that  quar- 
ter! In  keeping  with  the  prevailing  informal 
spirit  of  Franco-American  amity,  I  hailed  her 
in  the  lamest  of  French  as  a  fellow  fiddler. 
[  162  ] 


WHEN    IN    PARIS  — 

In  daintily  quaint  English  she  responded 
that,  yes,  indeed,  she  loved  chamber  music, 
and  this  was  her  sister  who  played  the  'cello, 
and  here,  behold,  another  sister  who  sang,  and, 
pointing  out  a  young  and  charming  member  of 
the  group,  that  was  none  else  than  her  mother, 
who  played  the  piano  with  inspiration. 

A  group  of  friendly  and  enthusiastic  musical 
amateurs  in  my  old  haunts?  The  weather  indi- 
cations were  indeed  set  fair. 

I  believe  in  signs,  omens,  and  hunches. 
Whenever  I  feel  something  go  click!  in  my  soul 
and  see  the  little  pointer  swing  around  and 
point,  I  usually  start  forth  in  the  direction  it 
indicates.  And  it  scarcely  ever  has  been  known 
to  lead  me  astray.  This  time  the  pointer  came 
to  rest  in  the  direction  of  these  musical  ama- 
teurs. Mine  not  to  reason  why.  Mine  but  to 
follow  the  arrow,  no  matter  how  audaciously  I 
might  be  contravening  the  strict  etiquette  of 
the  exclusive  social  circles  to  which  it  was 
evident  that  this  family  belonged. 

I  entered  more  deeply  into  conversation 
[  163  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

with  them  and  we  went  along  together  down 
to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  comparing  notes 
about  our  respective  quotas  of  fiddler's  luck. 
With  the  great  carbonated  carnival  throng 
there,  we  did  homage  to  the  gayly  decorated 
statue  of  Strasbourg;  and  the  girls  pointed  out 
to  me  those  absurd  and  famous  twin  tutelary 
dolls,  Nanette  and  Rintintin,  which,  in  tiny 
replicas  made  of  colored  threads  and  worn 
in  the  lapel,  had  protected  all  true  Parisians 
during  the  dark  days  now  so  gloriously  done 
with  —  from  the  Berthas  and  the  Gothas. 

I  invited  the  whole  family  to  tea.  But  the 
mother  had  to  take  her  youngest  to  a  violin 
lesson.  So  then  I  invited  the  singer  and  the 
'cellist  to  tea.  The  family  threw  up  its  united 
hands  in  holy  horror.  What!  Take  two  jeunes 
filles  out  unchaperoned?  Such  things  were 
simply  not  done  in  Paris. 

But  my  little  pointer  held  firm. 

''Madame,'^  said  I,  "when  in  Rome  do  you 
do  as  the  Romans  do.^" 

''Mais  ouiy  monsieur.''^ 
[  164  ] 


WHEN   IN   PARIS  — 

"And  when  in  America?** 

"As  the  Americans,  of  course/* 

I  waved  my  hand  up  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

^^  Madame,  what  color  predominates  in  this 
crowd?'* 

A  mighty  procession  of  olive-drab  doughboys 
was  surging  down  from  the  Madeleine,  filling 
the  street  from  curb  to  curb,  dragging  two 
Boche  archies  and  singing,  "Hail,  hail,  the 
gang's  all  here!'* 

"Green-yellow,**  she  admitted.  "How  say 
you  in  your  army  language?  Paris  to-day  is 
O.D.** 

^* Madame/'  I  replied  solemnly,  "Paris  to- 
day is  an  American  city.  Therefore,  with  your 
permission,  I  shall  carry  your  daughters  away 
to  tea  in  good  American  fashion.'* 

The  reasonable  woman  realized  that  I  had 
scored  a  point.  She  smiled  and  gave  in  at  once. 

In  the  tea  room  I  learned  that  the  'cellist 

was  a  poet  and  a  student  at  the  Sorbonne, 

while  the  singer  was  a  Red  Cross  nurse  in  a 

French  hospital.  She  told  me  that  she  was 

[  165  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

nursing  Moroccan  troops,  and  related  with  ap- 
preciation how  one  of  her  dusky  patients,  fresh 
from  Africa,  had  wished  to  buy  her  for  a  wife, 
and  had  made  an  offer  of  fifteen  head  of  cattle 
for  her.  He  said  he  would  have  made  it  thirty 
cattle  only  she  was  so  old.  He  could  not  con- 
ceive how  she  could  have  reached  the  ripe  age 
of  twenty-three  without  being  married.  In  his 
country  a  succulent  woman  like  her,  he  de- 
clared with  conviction,  is  always  bought  before 
she  is  fifteen. 

The  girls  told  me  that  there  were  three  more 
sisters  in  the  family,  all  of  whom  were  doing 
war  work  of  one  kind  or  another.  We  prome- 
naded a  little  more  in  a  Paris  that  had  gone 
quite  mad  with  joy  and  the  spirit  of  brother- 
hood, and  then  strolled  over  in  the  late  after- 
noon to  see  the  preparations  in  Notre  Dame 
for  the  impending  "Te  Deum'*  of  victory. 

The  cathedral  was  officially  closed.  But  a 

little  diplomacy  and  the  glint  of  silver,  joined 

with  the  then  prevailing  tendency  to  treat  all 

Americans  as  saviors  of  France,  won  us  admis- 

[  166] 


WHEN   IN   PARIS  — 

sion.  This  success  made  a  deep  impression  on 
the  girls.  And  as  we  wandered  about  the  gor- 
geously decorated  nave,  which  we  had  quite  to 
ourselves,  they  remarked  that  they  had  never 
before  been  so  well  treated  in  Paris.  The  sight 
of  the  American  uniform  seemed  to  smooth 
away  every  diiBSculty.  Why,  it  had  even  pro- 
cured actual  sugar  and  cakes  to  go  with  the  tea 
—  an  unheard-of  thing  in  those  Hooverizing 
times.  It  was  good  to  know  that  all  the  fun 
was  not  on  my  side. 

The  next  day,  having  providentially 
^* missed"  my  train  to  Nice,  I  called  at  the 
beautiful  palace  of  my  so  democratic  aristo- 
crats. The  'cellist  and  her  sister  were  not  there, 
but  the  mother  and  a  new  selection  of  daugh- 
ters were.  The  'cello  stood  in  the  comer,  and  I 
whisked  it  forth  at  once  to  play  sonatas  by 
Handel  and  Mendelssohn  with  the  head  of  the 
family.  *^  Sister  Superior,"  as  I  came  after- 
wards to  call  her,  discovered  a  youthful 
bravura,  impetuosity,  courage,  and  resource- 
fulness at  the  piano,  and  a  feeling  for  the  sub- 
[  167  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

tieties  of  fiddler's  magic  that  filled  me  with 
enthusiasm. 

The  Boches  had  builded  better  than  they 
knew.  They  had  not  only  demonstrated  how 
delightful  peace  can  be  after  a  world  war;  they 
had  not  only  given  me  a  new  musical  adven- 
ture. They  had  also  given  me  something  I  just 
then  badly  needed  —  a  home.  For  from  that 
day,  the  whole  establishment  adopted  me  as 
its  American  brother,  declaring  that  all  right- 
minded  French  families  were  adding  to  their 
numbers  in  this  fashion,  and  why  should  not 
they  acquire  one  who  liked  the  things  they  did? 

In  order  to  have  this  adventure  just  like  a 
story-book  in  every  particular,  it  lacked  only 
the  conventional  ending  of  fiction.  I  ought  to 
have  fallen  in  love  with  one  of  those  adorable 
girls  and  wooed  and  won  her  if  possible,  and 
lived  happily  ever  after.  They  were  all  the 
heart  could  desire.  And  it  certainly  would  have 
happened  thus  if  it  had  not  been  that  my  heart 
was  otherwise  occupied.  I  had  not  lived  ex- 
actly a  saddened  existence  since  that  unfortu- 
[  168  ] 


WHEN    IN   PARIS  — 

nate  episode  with  Priscilla  and  the  "Medita- 
tion" from  "'Thais."  I  had  knocked  freely 
about  the  world  and  had  had  an  uproariously 
good,  picaresque  time  of  it  as  a  musical  vaga- 
bond. The  only  thing  was,  I  never  could  get 
Priscilla  out  of  my  imagination  enough  to 
want  any  other  girh 


CHAPTER  XIII 

INTEB-ALLIED  FIDDLESTICKS 

WHERE  is  the  best  'cello  in  town?'' 
It  was  the  old  question  that  had  so 
frequently  brought  me  rich  returns  in  the  way 
of  musical  adventure.  I  was  asking  it  on  my 
first  morning  in  Nice. 

The  leading  music  dealer  scratched  his  head 
and  pondered  profoundly.  Then  he  furnished 
me  with  the  name  and  address  of  the  leading 
'cellist.  And  in  response  to  further  inquiries,  he 
assured  me  that  he  would  keep  on  the  alert  for 
talented  amateur  fiddlers  who  cherished  a  pas- 
sion for  string  quartets. 

I  climbed  to  the  apartment  of  the  leading 
'cellist,  and  found  him  a  most  agreeable  gen- 
tleman. After  we  had  conferred  for  an  hour 
on  the  subtleties  of  our  craft,  and  driven  home 
our  points  by  suddenly  snatching  'cellos  out 
of  corners  and  fiddling  in  an  illustrative  man- 
ner, and  had  exchanged  the  names  of  the  best 
[  170] 


INTER-ALLIED   FIDDLESTICKS 

'cello  pieces  which  one  of  us  knew  and  the 
other  did  not,  and  had  settled  with  finality  all 
the  vastest  musical  problems  of  the  age  to  our 
mutual  satisfaction,  and  I  had  offered  to  pay 
him  rent  for  an  instrument  up  to  the  wealth 
limit  of  a  first  lieutenant,  and  he  had  passion- 
ately repudiated  all  suggestions  of  filthy  lucre 
insinuating  itself  between  kindred  and  inter- 
allied spirits,  and  had  unreservedly  placed  his 
bow,  his  mute,  his  library,  and  any  'cello  within 
his  gates  at  my  disposal  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night  —  we  decided  that  sometimes  things 
turn  out  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
worlds,  and  adjourned  to  quaff  vermouth-seltz 
to  the  inter-alhed  musical  cause  at  the  cafe 
around  the  comer. 

The  next  morning  I  received  two  notes  from 
total  strangers.  Both  had  heard  of  me  from  the 
music  dealer  and  both  were  keen  for  fiddling 
orgies. 

One  note  was  from  an  Italian  army  cap- 
tain on  leave.  He  had  once  played  the  viola. 
Now  that  the  Germans  had  given  up,  he 
[  171  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

would  like  to  celebrate  by  playing  it  again. 
For  he  alleged  that  he  knew  no  more  satisfac- 
tory method  of  expressing  one's  inmost  feel- 
ings of  jubilation  than  to  sit  in  at  a  congenial 
string  quartet  party. 

The  other  note  was  from  a  gentleman  who 
expressed  himself  with  such  infectious  enthu- 
siasm at  the  idea  of  a  vagrant  doughboy  'cellist 
dropping  into  Nice,  that  I  clapped  on  my  cap 
and  started  forthwith  to  hunt  him  up. 

He  proved  to  be  a  Polish  painter  and  archi- 
tect who  had  served  in  the  French  army,  and 
had  been  wounded,  disabled,  and  discharged. 
Luckily  his  arms  and  hands  were  still  in  fid- 
dling trim.  He  possessed  a  good  violin,  consid- 
erable technic,  and  a  music-room  innocent  of 
those  rugs  and  hangings  abhorred  by  all  true 
fiddlers,  which  drink  the  heart  out  of  music  as 
thirstily  as  a  sponge  drinks  water  or  an  in- 
fantryman vin  rouge. 

He  cherished,  for  the  recreation  of  amateur 
fiddling,  an  enthusiasm  so  titanic  that,  if 
translated  into  kilowatts  (or  whatever  it  is 
[  172  ] 


INTER-ALLIED    FIDDLESTICKS 

that  the  electric  light  corporation  over-charges 
you  for  on  the  first  of  the  month),  it  could  quite 
easily  have  run  all  the  public  utilities  of  Nice, 
Monaco,  and  Monte  Carlo. 

He  hailed  with  explosive  rapture  the  idea 
of  forming  a  string  quartet.  He  knew,  and 
vouched  for,  the  Italian  captain's  fiddling 
powers.  All  we  now  needed  was  another  violin- 
ist. He  told  me  that,  since  his  recent  arrival, 
he  had  already  had  a  little  sport  in  playing 
trios. 

He  had  found  a  pianist  with  nimble  fingers, 
above  the  volume  of  whose  playing  a  rugged 
fiddler  might  make  himself  heard.  Also,  a 
'cellist  who  possessed  an  incomparable  Stradi- 
varius  instrument  which  he  called  "Josephine," 
and  loved  more  than  life  itself. 

This  gentleman,  however,  was  not  now  as 
youthful  as  he  once  had  been,  and  his  some- 
what delicate  health  did  not  permit  him  to 
indulge  in  those  unbridled  fiddling  orgies,  with 
the  sky  the  limit,  which  were  so  dear  to  his 
own  fiery  Polish  soul. 

[  173  1 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

One  trio  afternoon  a  week  satisfied  all  the 
aspirations  of  the  owner  of  Josephine.  This 
was  the  afternoon.  Would  I  not  attend? 

Vfould  I  not! 

That  afternoon  I  found  my  Pole  a  very  sat- 
isfactory amateur  with  a  self-restraint  in  the 
softest  passages  that  must  have  done  violence 
to  his  impetuous  and  inflammable  nature.  He 
justified  his  boast,  however,  of  making  himself 
heard  above  the  piano  at  all  times. 

Josephine  was  a  perfectly  magnificent  little 
Strad.  As  I  listened  to  her  owner,  methodically 
educing  from  her  balmy  bosom  one  note  after 
another  of  the  Tschaikowsky  trio,  I  tried  hard 
to  be  a  good  sportsman,  and  stop  longing  to 
caress  her  satiny  neck  and  lissom  strings 
myself. 

I  fear  her  master  must  have  felt  my  ill- 
concealed  yearning,  however,  for  he  suddenly 
laid  down  his  bow  when  it  came  to  that  one  of 
the  variations  which  ought  to  be  entitled  "The 
Channel  Crossing,"  because  it  sounds  like  a 
small  steamer  in  a  very  choppy  sea,  with  the 
[  174  1 


INTER-ALLIED    FIDDLESTICKS 

passengers  all  lined  up  at  the  rail  and  singing, 
each  in  his  own  tongue: 

Allegro  moderato 


i 


y» 


w^rT^-^m 


No  one  knows  how  sad  I     am  !U-u-u !  U-u-u ! 

Ah !  comme  je  suis  mal  au  coeur ! U-u-u !  U-u-u  I 

Keiner  weiss  wie  krank  Ich  bin !  U-u-u !  U-u-u ! 

Las  -  ci  -  a  -  te  mi  mo-rir'!  U-u-u!  U-u-u! 

^*  Monsieur,^'  said  the  old  gentleman  to  me 
with  a  courtly  bow,  "this  music  is  very  stren- 
uous. It  has  slightly  fatigued  me.  Would  you 
mind  to  do  the  kindness  of  finishing  these  vari- 
ations in  my  stead?" 

**What,  monsieur,  not  on  Josephine?'* 

"Most  certainly,  monsieur.  I  charm  myself 
to  entrust  her  to  your  hands." 

Josephine  was  marvelous.  She  sang  like  one 
of  the  larger  but  more  feminine  morning  stars. 
She  ministered  tenderly  to  the  melancholy 
passengers,  footed  it  featly  on  dainty  silken 
pumps  through  the  mazurka,  and  lumbered 
with  elegance  down  the  length  of  the  porten- 
tous fugue.  Right  gallantly  did  she  bear  herself 
[  175  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

all  through  the  brilliant  charge  of  the  heavy 
brigade  which  culminates  in  the  victory  of  the 
inter-allies,  and  she  participated  in  the  ulti- 
mate funeral  procession  with  becoming  deco- 
rum —  with  even,  in  places,  a  thrilling  solem- 
nity, despite  her  almost  unbridled  exuberance. 
This  solemnity  I  afterwards  imagined  to  con- 
tain a  touch  of  prophetic  prevision  of  her  own 
shocking  doom. 

When  at  length  our  pianist  had  stifled  the 
last  muffled  drum,  I  knew  that  I  had  scarcely 
ever  in  my  life  played  a  better  fiddle  than  little 
Josephine. 

I  told  her  owner  so. 

^^ Monsieur ^'^  said  he  courteously,  "consider 
her  as  your  own  whenever  you  wish  to  make 
music  while  sojourning  in  Nice.  As  for  me,  I 
utilize  her  very  little.  She  lies  at  your  disposi- 
tion." I  could  see  that  this  charming  gentle- 
man had  been  all  broken  up  by  the  emotions 
of  the  music,  for  his  kind  hand  shook  as  it  held 
mine. 

I  thanked  him  right  heartily  and  went  into 
[  176  ] 


INTER-ALLIED    FIDDLESTICKS 

the  hall  to  take  leave  of  my  hostess,  while  he 
put  Josephine  into  her  blouse. 

Crash! 

A  sickening  report  came  from  the  room  I  had 
just  quitted.  It  was  the  same  fearful,  nerve- 
shattering  sound  that  I  had  already  heard 
with  dismay  and  heart-sickness  three  times 
before  in  my  life,  and  could  never  forget.  That 
sound  was  more  dismaying  than  the  whizz- 
bang  or  the  mine  or  the  dull  crack  of  the  gas- 
shell. 

With  grievous  forebodings  I  rushed  back  to 
the  music-room.  My  worst  apprehensions  were 
realized.  There  lay  Josephine,  the  noblest  Cre- 
monan  of  them  all,  shivered  to  fragments  on  the 
rugless  floor.  Thus  cracked  a  noble  heart!  Her 
master,  having  been  rendered  absent-minded 
by  fiddler's  magic,  had  grasped  her  by  her 
slender  tail-piece  as  a  preliminary  of  her  toilet. 
The  ancient  double-bass  gut  that  secured  the 
strings  had  pulled  out  —  and  now  the  world 
lay  in  ruins  about  him.  Down  the  pallid  cheeks 
of  the  poor  gentleman  gushed  tears  of  anguish 
[1771 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

and  despair,  and  plentifully  bedewed  the  mor- 
tal remains  of  Josephine. 

I  had  some  ado  to  keep  from  joining  him  in 
this  last,  sad  rite.  For  all  true  fiddlers  cherish 
sentiments  of  almost  human  admiration  and 
affection  for  a  great  fiddle.  And,  after  a  fiddler 
has  once  played  on  it  and  felt  it  sing  and  laugh 
and  turn  wistful  and  tender  and  arch,  and  thrill 
with  joy  or  passion  or  triumph  even  once  under 
his  fingers,  these  sentiments  crystallize  into 
something  rather  akin  to  the  feeling  of  a  man 
for  a  beautiful  woman  to  whom  he  has  made 
love  and  who  has  responded  in  kind.  Of  course, 
the  whole  thing  becomes  more  intensified  if 
you  have  not  only  made  love  to  a  fiddle,  but 
taken  it  to  your  bosom  to  have  and  to  hold  till 
death  do  you  part. 

As  for  my  own  'cello,  it  is  so  much  a  portion 
of  myself  that  if  any  passer-by  happens  to 
lurch  against  it,  I  feel  an  actual  pang  of  phy- 
sical pain,  and  my  fingers  involuntarily  ball 
themselves  into  a  fist,  and  the  fist  automati- 
cally shoots  forth  in  the  direction  of  the  assail- 
[  178  ] 


INTER-ALLIED   FIDDLESTICKS 

ant  before  my  conscious  will  has  time  to  pull 
itself  together  and  limber  itself  up  and  take 
any  measures  whatever  on  its  own  account. 

Alas,  poor  Josephine!  I  felt  as  a  man  in  the 
midst  of  a  gloriously  absorbing  flirtation  would 
feel  if  a  taxicab  suddenly  ran  over  the  lady. 
But  I  was  recalled  from  the  contemplation  of 
my  own  distress  by  the  parting  words  of 
Josephine's  owner: 

^^C'estfinil  From  this  hour  I  shall  never 
again  set  bow  to  'cello  T* 

Affected  as  I  was,  however,  I  was  not  Jo- 
sephine's husband.  So  I  personally  could  not 
feel  anything  like  this  degree  of  renunciation. 
Having  such  a  fragrant  cup  dashed  from  my 
lips  only  made  me  all  the  thirstier  for  a  satis- 
fying draught  of  fiddler's  magic.  I  withdrew 
quietly  from  the  house  of  mourning,  after 
agreeing  with  my  Polish  host  that  the  first 
fellow  who  ran  across  the  trail  of  the  fourth 
fiddler  necessary  to  complete  our  proposed 
quartet  should  notify  the  other  "toot  sweet." 

Almost  at  once  I  found  what  looked  as  though 
I  179] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

it  might  indicate  a  trail  of  this  kind.  It  was  a 
street  on  the  way  back  to  the  hotel,  named  the 
Rue  Verdi.  This  debouched  into  the  Rue  Rossini. 

"If  anywhere,"  thought  I,  "one  might  find  a 
fiddler  in  such  a  musical  neighborhood  as  this." 

And  when  the  Rue  Rossini  led,  in  turn,  to 
the  Place  Mozart,  and  I  saw  that  the  Place 
Mozart  was  wholly  given  over  to  my  second 
favorite  sport,  lawn  tennis  —  a  pastime  which 
I  have  always  found  to  be  the  ideal  comple- 
ment to  my  first  favorite  sport,  fiddling  —  I 
was  sure  of  being  on  the  right  track.  The 
omens  were  set  fair,  and  I,  being  a  creature 
of  "hunches,"  decided  to  ask  every  one  who 
crossed  my  path  if  he  knew  any  fiddler. 

Entering  instantly,  I  joined  the  club,  rented 
a  racquet,  sneakers,  and  flannels,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  what  seemed  a  geologic  period, 
knew  the  comfort  of  disporting  myself  in  some- 
thing else  than  puttees,  tight  breeches,  and  a 
high  stiff  collar.  In  the  locker-room  I  met  a  num- 
ber of  French,  English,  and  American  officers 
and  asked  them  my  foreordained  question.  But 
[  180  1 


INTER-ALLIED    FIDDLESTICKS 

they  all  knew  nothing  about  the  musical  side  of 
Nice,  and  cared  less.  So  I  got  into  an  inter- 
allied tennis  quartet,  and  soon  became  so  en- 
grossed in  the  discovery  that  it  does  not  always 
affect  your  tennis  technic  very  seriously  to  be 
shot,  that  I  forgot  about  my  quest  until  a  tall 
American  came  up  and  introduced  himseK 
after  the  third  set. 

"Won't  you,"  he  asked,  "play  doubles  with 
me  in  the  tournament  next  week?'* 

I  had  noticed  him  on  the  adjacent  court,  and 
had  admired  his  long,  accurate  ground-strokes 
and  the  impregnable  barrier  his  height  and  his 
deft  wrist  presented  at  the  net.  But  I  suddenly 
recalled  my  quest. 

"Charmed,"  I  said,  "if  you  will  tell  me 
where  to  find  a  good  fiddler." 

The  answer  came  prompt  as  a  ball  from  his 
racquet. 

"Nothing  easier;  that  is  to  say,  if  you  don't 
mind  a  girl." 

I  did,  rather.  I  had  found  by  long  experience 
that  if  you  include  a  girl  in  the  fiddling  frater- 

[  181] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

nity,  she  generally  gets  exhausted  about  a 
quartet  and  a  half  before  the  rest  are  ready  to 
stop.  And  you  have  to  be  more  formal  than  is 
quite  comfortable  in  the  realms  of  jfiddler's 
luck.  And  she  has  more  moods  and  tenses  than 
the  rest,  and  usually  harbors  a  prejudice  against 
such  real  man's  music  as  the  quartets  of  D'Indy 
and  the  last  Beethovens  and  the  Brahms  sextets. 
Moreover,  one  or  two  of  the  three  men  usu- 
ally side-track  the  main  issue,  which  is  quartet 
playing,  by  falling  in  love  with  that  miserable 
girl.  Thereupon  she  grows  absent-minded  and 
makes  a  wrong  entry  in  the  fugue  and  puts  her 
fiddle  petulantly  down  upon  the  table  and 
bursts  into  a  flood  of  tears  which  she  after- 
wards attributes  to  nervous  fatigue  induced  by 
playing  too  long  and  by  the  severity  of  the  first 
viohnist,  when  she  is  really  blubbering  because 
the  first  violinist  has  kept  his  head  and  refused 
to  succumb  to  her  charms  along  with  the 
violaist  and  the  second.  Oh,  no!  quartets  are 
much  more  fun  if  you  can  only  keep  them 
clear  of  petticoats, 

[  182  ] 


INTER-ALLIED   FIDDLESTICKS 

I  looked  unenthusiastic  and  told  my  future 
tennis  partner  my  philosophy  of  sex  and 
fiddlesticks. 

"But  she's  really  great,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  nonsense  about  her  and  she's  strong  as  a 
horse.  She's  a  genuine  pupil  of  Joachim  and 
has  a  wonderful  Guamerius  violin,  and  reads 
music  at  sight  the  way  a  broker  reads  the  list 
of  Outside  Securities,  or  a  young  author  reads 
his  first  letter  of  acceptance  from  a  magazine." 

"Sounds  promising,"  I  admitted.  "Lead  me 
to  her!" 

"I  have  n't  time  to-day,"  he  answered,  "but 
I'll  scribble  you  a  card." 

I  took  it  and  hastened  to  a  lofty  studio  on 
the  other  side  of  town.  The  tennis  player  had 
not  deceived  me.  The  fiddler  actually  was  a 
pupil  of  Joachim  and  possessed  a  real  Guar- 
nerius  fiddle.  There  was  no  nonsense  about 
her,  and  she  read  music  the  way  a  Rolls-Royce 
runs  downhill. 

She  was  the  most  international  fiddler  I  had 
ever  met,  being  partly  French,  partly  English, 
[  183  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

and  partly  Spanish,  with  that  slight  dash  of  the 
Hebraic  which  Du  Maurier  recommended  in 
"Trilby"  as  a  desirable  ingredient  of  genius, 
and  a  larger  dash  of  Danish,  and  an  Italian 
name.  She  seemed  to  talk  every  language  under 
the  heavens,  including  the  quaintest  of  English. 
'* Shoulder-blades"  she  would  call  "blade- 
bones";  homesickness  she  referred  to  as 
"country-ache";  and  she  concluded  a  feminist 
eulogy  on  her  own  sex  with  a  triumphant  refer- 
ence to  "the  hand  that  wags  the  cradle."  Her 
costume,  however,  was  the  uniform  of  the 
Y.M.C.A.  She  told  me  she  was  "an  enter- 
tainer"; and  she  certainly  was. 

As  soon  as  she  tucked  her  fiddle  imder  her 
chin  I  knew  that  I  had  found  an  ideal  first 
violinist,  and  at  once  I  mentally  degraded  my 
nice  Pole  to  the  role  of  second  fiddle.  He 
would  not  mind,  once  he  heard  her  play.  When 
I  unfolded  the  plan  for  orgies  of  chamber  music 
she  welcomed  it  with  rapture,  and  promised  to 
be  on  hand  the  following  afternoon. 

That  congress  of  inter-allied  fiddlesticks 
[  184] 


INTER.ALLIED   FIDDLESTICKS 

worked  as  smoothly  as  the  military  forces  of 
France,  Great  Britain,  America,  Portugal,  and 
Italy  cooperating  on  the  western  front  dur- 
ing the  Meuse-Argonne  offensive.  The  four 
fiddlesticks  scraped  along  together  almost  per- 
fectly. The  amalgamation  of  Western  Europe 
represented  by  the  first  violin  was  balanced  by 
the  impetuosity  and  brilliance  of  our  second 
fiddling  Pole  from  the  East,  and  mellowed  by 
the  sensuous  southern  warmth  of  Italy  as  radi- 
ated by  the  genial  viola.  And  the  whole  outfit 
was  secured  to  earth  by  brass  tacks  through 
the  eflSciency-managing  efforts  of  the  Yankee 
bull-fiddler. 

Before  the  first  piece  was  over  we  were  fused 
to  the  point  where  we  recognized  that  there  is 
neither  east  nor  west,  border  nor  breed  nor 
birth,  when  four  strong  fiddlers  sit  face  to  face, 
though  they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LOVE  DUET  WITH  OBLIGATO 

THE  first  violinist's  way  home  and  mine 
lay  along  the  Boulevard  Victor  Hugo.  As 
we  walked,  this  stalwart  young  woman  looked 
me  over  with  an  appraising  eye  and  remarked: 

"You  may  be  a  convalescent,  but  you  look 
not  yet  quite  fiddled  out  already/* 

"No  more  I  am/* 

"Well,  what  say  you  to  some  trios  this 
evening?'* 

My  natural,  or  rather  my  long-developed, 
caution  came  to  the  fore. 

"Who  is  the  pianist?" 

"A  young  AmSricaine,  my  side  chum  in  the 
work  of  entertainment." 

"Does  she  pound?" 

"Heaven  beware!  Her  little  white  hands  can 
caress  the  keys  more  gently  than  I  could  wag 
a  sleeping  infant.** 

I  looked  dubious  and  said,  I  fear  with  a  note 
[  186] 


LOVE    DUET    WITH   OBLIGATO 

of  impatience,  "Yes,  yes.  I Ve  heard  that  sort 
of  thing  said  about  pianists  hundreds  of  times. 
And  they  generally  turn  out  to  'wag'  the  piano 
about  as  gently  as  a  West  Indian  hurricane 
*  wags'  a  catboat." 

"Just  you  come  to-night  and  see,"  she  re- 
plied soothingly. 

I  burst  out:  "You  think  my  caution  is 
absurd,  I  know.  But  my  whole  life  has  been 
wrecked  by  that  sort  of  piano-playing,  from 
the  time  the  only  girl  in  the  world  pounded  me 
out  of  her  life,  to  the  time,  only  a  few  weeks 
ago,  when  I  nearly  committed  assault  and  bat- 
tery on  a  pupil  of  Cesar  Franck." 

My  companion's  eyes  snapped  with  de- 
termination. 

"I  make  then  with  you  a  compact.  Come  to- 
night and  do  a  Schumann  trio.  If  my  little 
chum  plays  the  pianos  forte,  you  shall  smash 
my  golden  fiddle  over  her  golden  head!" 

"All  right,"  I  laughed.  "Just  watch  me  hold 
you  to  that." 

That  evening  I  arrived  early,  and  the  inter- 
[  187] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

allied  fiddler  and  I  had  tuned  up  and  exchanged 
much  fiddle  gossip  before  the  bell  rang. 

"My  side  chum!"  she  exclaimed,  and  went 
to  the  door. 

I  had  one  of  my  "himches."  A  crisis  of  some 
sort  was  approaching.  Probably  it  would  turn 
out  to  be  the  same  old  story.  The  side  chum 
would  pound.  I  would  be  rude  to  her.  That 
would  incense  the  fiddler,  of  course,  and  then 
what  would  become  of  the  inter-allied  fiddle- 
sticks? I  really  must  take  myself  in  hand! 

The  door  opened  and  in  came  the  side  chum, 
a  small  figure  with  golden  curls  bursting  from 
under  one  of  those  deplorable  Y.M.C.A.  hats 
which,  however,  this  time  did  not  look  deplor- 
able at  all.  She  had  a  peculiarly  buoyant,  float- 
ing sort  of  walk,  and  I  noticed  that  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  were  arched  slightly  outward. 
With  a  sudden  electric  shock  of  interest  I 
peered  under  the  hat-brim  and  found  two 
great,  unforgettable  blue  eyes. 

Ye  gods!  It  was  Priscilla! 

"Priscilla!"  I  cried,  and  bore  down  upon  her. 
I  188] 


LOVE    DUET    WITH    OBLIGATO 

She  stood  petrified,  and  went  as  white  as 
marble. 

So  she  had  not  forgotten,  either. 

"You!"  she  gasped. 

She  caught  sight  of  the  gold  chevron  on  my 
right  sleeve,  made  a  half-conscious  motion 
toward  it,  and  then  checked  herself. 

"And  you've  been  wounded!  Tell  me, 
quick,  are  you  all  right .'^ " 

She  was  just  the  same  Priscilla,  womanly, 
impetuous,  sympathetic.  She  was  picking 
things  up  exactly  where  they  had  been  be- 
fore that  fatal  quarrel,  years  ago.  For  the 
matter  of  that,  so  was  I. 

For  answer,  I  seized  her  in  my  arms,  or 
rather  in  one,  for  the  'cello  dangled  behind  her 
back,  and  waltzed  her  swiftly  twice  about  the 
studio.  It  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  was  ordi- 
narily given  to,  but  the  exuberance  of  the  mo- 
ment had  to  be  let  off  in  some  way.  And  Pris- 
cilla did  not  seem  to  mind. 

Then  we  stopped  and  talked  hard.  And  we 
had  so  much  to  ask  each  other  that,  five  min- 
[  189  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

utes  later,  I  realized  that  I  still  held  the  'cello 
at  arm's  length  in  one  hand  and  her  soft  fingers 
in  the  other. 

There  had  not  been  any  years  between.  It 
was  just  some  queer  freak  of  fiddler's  magic, 
perhaps,  that  we  were  in  a  strange  country, 
facing  each  other  in  these  strange  garments. 
Here  was  Priscilla,  with  her  blue  eyes  looking 
the  same  message  into  mine,  with  her  fingers 
arched  in  the  same  old  adorable  way,  as  if  they 
were  reaching  for  an  invisible  piano  —  or  my 
hand.  And  here  was  I,  holding  fast  to  her  with 
one  hand  and  the  'cello  with  the  other,  as  it 
had  always  been.  I  drew  a  long  breath  of 
happiness. 

"Well,  Priscilla,  dear,  here  we  are  on  our 
world-tour,  after  all!"  I  said. 

At  this  point  the  inter-ally,  who,  completely 
forgotten,  had  been  fingering  her  fiddle-strings 
impatiently,  broke  in : 

"Is  it  that  you  are  lost  friends?" 

We  came  with  an  effort  to  a  realization  of 
time  and  space  and  the  situation,  and  began 
[  190  1 


LOVE    DUET    WITH    OBLIGATO 

explaining  together  how  very  far  from  lost 
friends  we  were  at  that  moment. 

Her  feminist  soul  evidently  considered  that 
enough  time  had  been  taken  up  by  the  reunion, 
for  at  once  she  said,  practically : 

^^Alors,  friends  or  no  friends,  what  of  playing 
that  trio?" 

At  least,  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  said  it 
at  once.  She  explained  later,  in  a  rather  ag- 
grieved tone,  that  she  had  given  us  "an  excel- 
lent half-hour." 

"That  trio"!  The  words  turned  me  cold. 
Bygones  had  been  up  to  this  moment  —  by- 
gones. But  what  would  happen  if  we  played  to- 
gether again?  I  knew  my  Priscilla's  way  with  the 
piano.  And,  alas!  I  knew  myself.  Would  it  not 
be  a  reckless  courting  of  renewed  disaster? 

I  began  to  invent  plausible  pretexts  for  post- 
poning the  trio  until  a  later  occasion.  But  the 
first  fiddler  glared  at  me  as  if  outraged. 

Priscilla  pulled  herself  together,  backed  up 
her  friend,  and  seated  herself  on  the  piano 
stool. 

1191] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

With  gloomy  forebodings  I  nerved  myself  to 
a  stern  policy  of  repression,  and  we  plunged 
into  the  first  movement  of  Schumann's  first 
trio,  the  one  where  the  piano  has  that  muddy, 
difficult,  badly  written  part,  full  of  soft  pas- 
sages with  lots  of  awkward  notes  in  them  — 
where  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  keep  the  piano 
from  sounding  like  a  giant  gargling  his  throat 
with  boiling  pitch. 

I  waited  agonizedly  for  the  uproar  to  start. 
But  it  did  not  start.  Pained  expectation  turned 
to  surprise.  Surprise  became  relieved  admira- 
tion. Priscilla's  white  little  fingers  were  flitting 
over  those  viscous,  unwieldy,  Teutonic  chords 
as  lightly  as  a  butterfly  might  "wag"  the  gos- 
samer cradle  of  her  slumbering  infant,  if  but- 
terflies owned  cradles. 

The  horn  spectacles  of  the  first  fiddler 
gleamed  at  me  in  sardonic  triumph;  but  I  was 
too  relieved  and  glad  and  proud  of  Priscilla  to 
be  sheepish.  I  was  dazzled  by  the  vision  which 
that  performance  opened  up.  The  Priscilla 
whose  image  I  had  long  carried  about  in  my 
[  192  ] 


LOVE    DUET   WITH   OBLIGATO 

heart,  and  in  the  back  of  my  watch,  had  been 
wonderfully  alluring,  even  though  she  banged 
the  piano  most  atrociously.  But  the  new  Pris- 
cilla  who  did  not  bang,  but  handled  the  keys 
like  a  little  master,  was  too  perfect.  It  needed 
only  this  to  reduce  me  to  a  state  of  almost 
imbecile  adoration. 

From  that  point  on,  I  fear  that  our  trio  be- 
came a  sort  of  duet  for  piano  and  'cello  with 
violin  obligato.  I  wormed  my  chair  around  to 
a  position  where  I  could  catch  Priscilla's  eye 
from  time  to  time.  Blessed  be  chamber  music  I 
It  heightens  one's  faculties  to  that  telepathic 
point  where  you  can  read  the  mind  of  your 
musical  partner  almost  as  well  as  you  can 
read  the  printed  notes  on  the  rack  before  you. 
We  two  found  that  we  were  making  up  our 
years  of  lost  intimacy  in  glances  only  two  or 
three  notes  long. 

And  when  at  length  the  music  was  over,  and 
I  had  Priscilla  to  myself  out  under  the  hyp- 
notic Riviera  moon,  we  went  the  longest  way 
around,  just  as  we  used  in  the  days  when  our 
[  193] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

ostensible  goal  was  an  ice-cream  soda,  and 
wandered  slowly  along  the  beach  below  the 
Promenade  Anglais. 

She  did  not  deny  my  assertion  that  this  sort 
of  duet  was  even  more  satisfactory  than  the 
kind  with  the  violin  obligato.  And  when  my 
hand  crept  along  the  arm  I  was  holding  and 
found  her  dear  fingers  in  the  accustomed  way, 
and  she  did  not  withdraw  them,  but  gave  mine 
an  answering  pressure,  I  ascended  into  heaven. 

Having  reached  there,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
now  was  the  time  to  take  that  desirable  locality 
by  storm. 

"Priscilla  dear,  won't  you  .  .  ." 

The  fatal  question  was  trembling  on  my  lips 
when  I  was  seized  with  sudden  misgivings. 
This  might  seem  too  awfully  abrupt,  and 
frighten  her. 

I  ended,  lamely: 

"Won't  you  come  out  to  dinner  with  me 
to-morrow  night?" 

She  said  she  would. 

"And  —  Priscilla  —  you  don't  bear  malice? 
[  194  1 


LOVE   DUET   WITH   OBLIGATO 

We  can  go  on  where  we  left  off  before  that 
miserable  quarrel?" 

"Why,  I  don't  want  to  quarrel!"  said 
Priscilla  with  wide-eyed  and  non-committal 
innocence. 

But  she  had  promised  to  go  to  dinner  with 
me.  That  was  an  important  point  gained. 


CHAPTER  XV 
MY  BOW  SAVES  EGYPT 

A  FEW  minutes  later  I  was  toiling  up 
many  pairs  of  stairs,  carrying  the  bor- 
rowed 'cello  back  to  its  home,  when  I  was  ac- 
costed by  a  stranger.  He  was  a  short  person 
in  a  semi-military,  semi-postman's  blouse,  and 
a  semi-postman's,  semi-ecclesiastical  cap.  He 
fixed  me  earnestly  with  deep-set  eyes.  They 
were  the  eyes  of  an  enthusiast,  burning  un- 
quenchably  behind  small,  steel-bowed  spec- 
tacles. 

"Sir,'*  he  cried,  "I  demand  pardon,  but  do 
you  play  that?" 

He  pointed  to  what  I  held  under  my  arm. 

^^Mais  oui,  monsieur ^^^  I  returned  in  my  very 
choicest  French. 

"Doyouplay  it2^^Z/.^" 

The  little  eyes  flamed  even  more  eagerly.  It 
came  to  me  that  my  cross-examiner  was  one  of 
those  engaging  and  radio-active  souls  whom 
I  196  ] 


MY    BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

one  cannot  choose  but  like  from  the  first.  Not 
wishing  to  pad  out  the  leanness  of  fact  with  the 
pneumatic  calves  of  fiction,  I  explained  that 
though  my  recent  experience  of  the  trenches 
had  not  conduced  to  the  formation  and  main- 
tenance of  a  technic  comparable  to  that  of 
Pablo  Casals,  yet  — 

Much  had  I  'celloed  in  the  realms  of  gold. 
And  many  good  quartets  and  trios  seen; 
On  many  fiddling  orgies  had  I  been  — 

"Hold,  enough!"  cried  the  ecclesiastical 
stranger,  stretching  out  two  fingers  toward 
me  as  if  in  benediction.  Decision  dawned  on 
the  little  face,  and  the  pointed  beard  bristled 
determinedly. 

"My  mind  is  made.  Let  me  entreat  you  to 
come  and  save  me  from  destruction!" 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  I.  "He  must  be  mad. 
Much  enthusiasm  has  addled  his  brain.  Or  per- 
haps it's  on  account  of  the  war."  I  began  to 
realize  that  this  was  a  dark  and  lonely  stair  and 
that  it  might  be  as  well  to  humor  the  stranger. 
So  I  said  sympathetically:  "Of  course  I'll  save 
[  197] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

you  from  destruction  —  that  is,  if  I'm  up  to 
it.  You  must  tell  me  how  the  thing  can  be 
managed." 

"Know,  then,"  returned  the  little  man, 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  entire  five  feet  four, 
"that  I  am  the  Abbe  Quillper.  On  the  morrow 
I  produce  and  conduct,  for  the  first  time  on  the 
Azure  Coast,  the  opera  of  *  Joseph  in  Egypt '  by 
the  immortal  Mehul.  Alas!  at  this  the  eleventh 
hour,  my  violoncello  lies  stricken  with  the 
Spanish  influenza." 

"Is  the  flu,  then,  spreading  to  the  instru- 
mental world?"  I  inquired  soothingly.  "I 
knew  the  'cello  was  almost  human,  but 
really—" 

"It  is  the  instrumentalist,"  said  the  Abbe 
hastily,  "who  lies  stricken.  Behold,  I  have 
ground  to  a  powder  the  soles  of  my  boots  in 
running  about  Nice  to  find  another  'cellist. 
Vain  quest!  All  are  either  struggling  in  the 
throes  of  overwork,  or  lie  in  the  clutches  of  the 
epidemic.  I  know  not  in  which  direction  to 
turn.  VoUdr' 

[198] 


MY   BOW   SAVES   EGYPT 

He  showed  me  the  southern  exposure  of  his 
oflE  foot.  The  Abbe  had  spoken  the  truth.  He 
was  on  his  uppers!  His  madness,  then,  was  not 
due  to  the  war,  but  to  that  more  up-to-date 
cause,  the  labor  situation.  Or  perhaps  the  little 
man  was  not  mad  at  all;  only  desperate. 

I  leaned  against  the  balustrade  and  sum- 
marized the  situation.  Joseph  was  a  musical 
character  whom  I  had  hitherto  encountered 
neither  in,  nor  out  of,  Egypt.  This  astonish- 
ing stranger  proposed  that,  as  sole  'cellist  of 
heaven  alone  knew  what  orchestra,  chorus,  and 
band  of  protagonists,  I  should  read  "Joseph" 
at  sight,  without  rehearsing,  and  at  the  pre^ 
miere  performance.  Truly  a  dubious  proposal! 

On  the  other  hand,  what  untold  possibiKties 
it  opened  up  in  the  line  of  vagabond  musical 
adventure.  Were  the  stranger  mad  or  sane, 
here  was  a  sporting  proposition  ideally  calcu- 
lated to  inflame  the  imagination  of  the  true 
fiddler  errant.  Besides,  my  good  fortune  in 
finding  Priscilla  and  making  up  with  her  had 
put  me  in  such  a  wild  state  of  high  spirits  and 
[  199] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

universal  benevolence  that  I  would  have  en- 
tertained a  request  to  help  out  Old  Nick  him- 
self if  I  had  found  him  in  a  bad  way. 

"Abbe,"  cried  I  to  the  surprising  Quillper, 
"I'm  your  man!'* 

Early  the  following  afternoon  'cello  and  I 
drove  up  to  the  appointed  number.  At  the  very 
outset  I  was  forced  to  confess  that  the  place 
looked  more  like  a  tenement  than  an  opera 
house,  and  my  fears  for  the  sanity  of  Quillper 
were  revived.  Up  many  dingy  flights  I  toiled, 
seeking  for  Joseph  and  fearing  a  sell.  At  length 
on  a  door  I  saw  the  Abbe's  card. 

A  lady  one  hundred  years  of  age  answered 
my  knock.  She  was  bowed  beneath  the  weight 
of  at  least  fifty  of  them.  I  thought  that  she 
seemed  a  fit  companion  for  the  pyramids,  and 
inquired  if  this  were  Egypt. 

"One  little  moment,  monsieur^  and  I  will 
conduct  you  thither." 

She  donned  a  bonnet  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  Sphinx,  and  tottered  forth  in  the 
lead.  A  curious  pair  we  must  have  looked, 
[  200  1 


MY    BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

promenading  down  that  chic  boulevard,  the 
Sam-Browne-belted  six  feet  one  of  American 
oflScer  clutching  the  exceedingly  French  blouse 
of  an  Italian  'cello,  piloted  by  the  four  feet 
nothing  of  the  Sphinx,  who  was  bent  double 
the  better  to 

curiously  inspect  her  lasting  home. 
An  apparently  vast  throng  was  struggling  for 
admittance  to  a  small  building. 

"Behold  the  opera  house,"  announced  the 
Sphinx,  and  vanished. 

I  formed  myself  into  what  a  football  player 
would  have  called  "interference,"  and  pre- 
ceded the  'cello  into  the  interior.  Four  hundred 
of  the  natives  of  Nice  were  jamming  a  parochial 
theater.  The  Abbe  Quillper  extricated  himself 
and  me  from  the  mob,  greeted  me  with  mingled 
affection  and  relief,  and  installed  me  in  the 
sharp  angle  made  by  the  port  railing  of  the 
orchestra. 

We  musicians  were  jammed  together  with 
such  a  strict  economy  of  space  that  my  up- 
bow  speared  a  second  violinist  painfully  in  the 
[  201  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

lumbar  region,  while  my  down-bow  played  the 
mischief  with  the  other  'cellist,  a  charming  lad 
of  seventeen.  After  the  overture  began,  how- 
ever, it  became  clear  that  if  I  could  manage  to 
play  my  part  with  one  continuous  down-bow 
it  would  be  better  for  the  musical  quality  of 
the  opera.  The  more  I  interfered  with  the  activ- 
ities of  my  bull-fiddling  colleague,  the  more 
would  I  contribute  to  the  general  well-being 
of  "Joseph  in  Egypt."  For  the  lad  could  be 
counted  upon  with  certainty  to  do  only  one 
thing  —  and  that  was  to  play  the  wrong  note 
in  the  right  place.  As  for  playing  the  right 
note  in  any  place,  wrong  or  right,  that  ideal 
would  be  as  unattainable  for  him  as  it  would 
be  for  the  Abbe  Quillper  to  look  old  and  apa- 
thetic, or  for  the  Sphinx  to  appear  young  and 
sprightly. 

I  now  saw  that  the  Abbe  had  spoken  with  a 
broadly,  though  not  literally,  prophetic  vision 
in  declaring  that  I  would  be  the  only  'celKst  in 
the  orchestra.  He  might  safely  have  gone  fur- 
ther. Mine  was  the  only  bass  voice  in  that 
[  202  ] 


MY   BOW   SAVES   EGYPT 

shrilly  treble  throng  of  instruments  —  always 
excepting  my  colleague.  Throughout  that  mem- 
orable afternoon  I  spent  my  force  in  inducing 
the  latter,  by  veiled  innuendo,  entreaty,  ca- 
jolery, and  at  last  by  threats  of  personal  vio- 
lence, to  play  only  the  rests.  At  length,  to  the 
vast  improvement  of  the  general  effect,  I  suc- 
ceeded. But  the  good  lad,  far  from  resenting 
my  efforts,  turned  pages  for  me,  heaped  coals 
of  fire  upon  my  head  and  then  quenched  them 
with  bottles  of  beer  which  he  brought  me 
during  the  entr'actes. 

Though  candor  compels  me  to  refer  to  it  as 
one  speaks  of  the  sick,  the  performance  did 
almost  as  well  as  was  to  be  expected  under 
the  circumstances.  Only  three  times  that  af- 
ternoon, despite  the  Bolshevist  activities  of 
my  side  partner,  did  we  come  to  absolute  grief 
and  cease  and  determine  and  gird  ourselves 
anew  for  the  fray  and  begin  back  again  at  the 
letter  Q. 

There  was  a  fourth  time,  though,  when  it 
would  have  been  somewhat  better  had  we 
[  203  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

ceased,  or,  at  least,  determined.  This  was  when 
the  Children  of  Israel  had  to  do  a  grand  trium- 
phal parade  around  a  stage  at  least  fifteen  by 
twenty  feet  in  expanse.  The  comet  started  off 
all  by  himself  with  a  truly  brilliant  fanfare. 
Taking  their  cue  almost  at  once  from  the  cor-  • 
net,  the  Children  of  Israel,  led  by  the  Boy 
Benjamin,  began,  with  the  greatest  confidence 
and  resolution,  to  sing  something  in  French, 
the  purport  of  which  I  could  not  catch,  prob- 
ably because  I  was  counting  my  rests. 

Then  we  of  the  orchestra  came  in.  But  as 
soon  as  we  took  in  the  nature  of  the  sounds  we 
were  emitting,  we  exchanged  glances  of  dazed 
bewilderment,  not  unmingled  with  consterna- 
tion. We  were  playing  in  a  different  key  !  Simeon, 
old  villain  that  he  was,  winced  painfully.  The 
beard  of  the  Patriarch  Jacob  palpitated  with  a 
profound  emotion.  The  Boy  Benjamin  grew 
paler  by  several  degrees,  but  he  did  not  falter. 
He  glared  down  at  us  with  an  expression  like 
that  of  the  poilu  in  the  poster  who  is  saying, 
"They  shall  not  pass!" 

[  204  ] 


MY    BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

Made  sadder  and  wiser  by  previous  painful 
experiences  with  amateur  orchestras,  I  saw  in 
a  flash  what  had  happened,  and  swore  under 
my  breath  that  no  cometist  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed at  large  without  a  keeper.  This  one,  with 
the  absent-mindedness  of  true  genius,  had  in- 
serted in  his  instrument  the  short  B  flat  shank 
instead  of  the  long  A  shank  which  had  been 
prescribed  for  him  by  the  immortal  Mehul 
when  inspiration  from  on  high  had  guided  his 
quill  through  the  gross  darkness  of  Egypt. 

Anarchy  now  reigned  supreme.  I  endeavored 
to  become  the  man  of  the  hour  and  jump  into 
the  breach.  The  plan  I  formed  was  to  reconcile 
conflicting  interests  by  transposing  my  part  to 
the  exalted  key  of  the  comet  and  of  Israel,  and 
then,  by  a  gradual  subsidence,  comparable  to 
that  of  the  primordial  ocean  when  it  sank,  re- 
vealing the  continents,  to  lead  the  vocalists 
down  to  the  more  mundane  levels  of  the  or- 
chestra. At  least,  I  hoped  to  find  some  grounds 
for  compromise  between  the  belligerents.  That 
hope  proved  vain.  And  to  this  day  I  am  sure 
[  205  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

that  our  audience  is  convinced  that  Mehul, 
when  he  really  tries,  can  be  fully  as  modem  a 
composer  as  any  Bloch  or  Schoenberg  or  Stra- 
vinksy  of  them  all. 

As  became  a  stage  under  the  direction  of  an 
abbs,  the  buskined  boards  remained  entirely 
free  from  all  authentic  petticoats.  When  I 
found  my  way  behind  the  scenes  during  the 
first  entr'actey  I  sought  in  vain  for  the  gay  Mrs. 
Potiphar,  nor  could  I  discover  dancing  girls 
nor  Nile  maidens  nor  a  daughter  of  any  of  the 
Pharaohs.  It  was  all  strictly  stag.  But  I  dis- 
tributed cigarettes  am&ricaines  with  impartial 
hand  to  the  children  of  light  and  of  darkness, 
and  noted  that  even  the  virtuous  Joseph  did 
not  repulse  the  offer  of  an  Egyptian  Deity. 

All  the  time  I  marveled  more  and  more  and 
was  astonied  in  spirit  at  the  versatility  of 
that  myriad-minded  man,  the  Abbe  Quillper. 
During  the  first  act  I  had  noticed  that  this 
maestro,  whenever  the  music  ceased  for  so 
much  as  ten  measures  in  slow  time,  or  twenty 
in  quick,  had  always  instantly  cast  down  his 
[  206  ] 


MY    BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

baton  and  doubled  for  the  stage  door  with  grim 
determination,  elbowing  aside,  with  a  technic 
evidently  begotten  of  long  practice,  the  throng 
that  blocked  the  side  passage,  a  few  of  whom 
reposed  habitually  on  the  back  of  my  neck.  I 
now  saw  why  this  economy  of  time.  The  man 
was  leading,  not  a  double,  but  a  quintuple  life. 
If  he  had  been  a  seafaring  person,  he  might 
well  have  claimed,  in  the  words  of  Gilbert: 

**0h,  I  am  a  cook  and  a  captain  bold. 
And  the  mate  of  the  Nancy  brig. 
And  a  bo'smi  tight,  and  a  midshipmite. 
And  the  crew  of  the  captain's  gig." 

I  now  perceived  the  nature  of  the  activities 
he  must  have  been  engaged  in  during  these 
brief  excursions.  When  I  first  arrived  in  the 
wings  he  was  busily  enveloping  the  chorus  in 
flowing  draperies  of  orange,  scarlet,  and  royal 
purple.  His  pot'Ziz-postman's  coat  of  many 
colors  had  been  cast  aside  and  he  was  now 
"transpiring''  so  freely  that  his  earnest  little 
beard  was  quite  moist.  Then,  moving  so  swiftly 
that  the  sight  scarce  could  follow  him  in  his 
[  207  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

flight,  he  made  one  convulsive  leap,  dragged  a 
tall  ladder  from  a  recess,  seized  a  hammer, 
armed  himself  to  the  teeth  with  tacks,  and  be- 
gan tacking  up  a  back-drop  consisting  of  the 
Sahara  desert,  the  pyramids,  an  obelisk  or  two, 
and  a  sphinx  closely  resembling  the  good  lady 
who  had  conducted  me  thither. 

From  that  eminence,  breathing  out  threat- 
enings  and  tacks,  he  successfully  composed  a 
difference  that  had  arisen  between  Gad  and  the 
progenitor  of  the  half  tribe  of  Manasseh,  in  re 
the  equitable  division  of  a  joint  bottle*  of  beer. 
(Bearing  in  mind  a  painful  but  quickly  smoth- 
ered commotion  which  occurred  in  the  course 
of  the  ensuing  act  in  the  ranks  of  the  bare- 
footed Children  of  Israel,  I  sometimes  wonder 
now,  recollecting  these  emotions  in  tranquillity, 
whether,  before  the  curtain  rose,  all  those  tacks 
had  been  retrieved  from  the  well-trod  stage.) 

With  his  own  hands  the  good  Abbe  clutched, 

carried,  and  set  in  position  the  bath-chair  in 

the  depths  of  which  the  Patriarch  Jacob  (aged 

seventeen)  was  to  recline  at  the  dramatic  mo- 

[  208  ] 


MY    BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

ment  when  his  son  Joseph  (aged  nineteen) 
would  break  to  him  the  news  of  their  mutual 
relation.  No  sooner  was  this  a  fait  accompli 
than,  purple  and  streaming,  the  great  Quillper 
rushed  forth  with  a  play  of  elbows  into  the 
presence  of  the  impatient  groundlings,  button- 
ing his  poilu'postmaxi's  raiment  as  he  ran, 
seized  and  brandished  the  baton  in  a  masterful 
manner,  and  the  fun  was  on  again. 

I  had  often  heard  of  a  book  called  "The 
Lightning  Conductor."  Now  at  last  I  knew 
whom  it  was  about. 

I  blushed.  "And  this,''  thought  I  with  a  pang 
of  shame,  "is  the  stupendous  genius  whom  I 
put  down  for  mad  no  earlier  than  yesterday 
afternoon!"  But  after  all  I  was  comforted  by 
recalling  that  even  scientists  like  Lombroso 
and  Nordau  had  also  been  misled  into  sup- 
posing Parnassus  and  Bedlam  twin  peaks. 

Despite  the  rich  variety  of  the  entertain- 
ment, however,  I  found,  after  hours  of  jammed 
huddling  in  the  angle  of  the  orchestra  railing, 
that  the  performance  seemed  undoubtedly  long. 
[  209  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

I  felt  like  apostrophizing  "Joseph"  as  William 
Watson  apostrophized  Autumn : 

**0  be  more  beautiful  or  be  more  brief." 
And  when  the  curtain  finally  fell  upon  a  scene 
of  touching  but  triumphant  composition  of  all 
conflicting  claims,  I  reached  out  my  hand  for 
the  blouse  of  my  'cello  with  a  sigh  of  undeni- 
able relief.  For  four  mortal  hours  had  I  been 
pent  in  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  Egypt.  I 
yearned  for  a  breath  of  the  vital  airs  of  the 
Azure  Coast.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  take  a  soli- 
tary walk  before  dinner  and  bask  in  the  coming 
delights  of  the  evening  with  Priscilla,  and 
think  out  the  best  way  in  which  to  approach 
the  subject  of  marriage. 

"  Un  moment^'  interposed  my  colleague.  "Do 
you  not  wish  to  await  the  singing  of  the  ilf  ar- 
seillaise?'^ 

Why,  yes,  of  course,  I'd  await  it!  It  would 
never  do  for  me  to  bolt  just  then,  however 
much  I  wished  to.  I  was  the  only  American 
present,  and  in  uniform  besides. 

At  that  point  of  the  proceedings  the  Abbe 
[  210  ] 


MY   BOW    SAVES    EGYPT 

Quillper  showed  still  another  facet  of  his  ver- 
satile nature.  He  mounted  a  chair,  and  for 
some  ten  minutes  harangued  the  crowd  with 
unfailing  fluency.  Now,  I  can  understand 
French  fairly  well  when  the  speaker  does  not 
exceed  twenty -five  miles  per  hour.  Alas!  the 
Abbe  was  keeping  up  a  good  sixty.  All  that 
conveyed  itself  to  my  straining  intelligence  was 
that  a  collection  was  about  to  be  taken  up  in 
favor  of  some  extremely  worthy  object,  the 
precise  nature  of  which  I  shall  never  know. 

Then  the  Abbe  bounded  like  a  young  roe 
from  off  his  chair,  seized  the  postman's  eccle- 
siastical head-dress,  and  extended  it  personally 
under  the  nose  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
present.  Since  the  fall  of  the  curtain  "^^7^  mo- 
ment'' nearly  half  an  hour  in  length  had 
elapsed. 

Wielding  practiced  elbows  the  Abbe  rushed 
into  the  wings.  Prom  my  position  on  the  ex- 
treme flank  of  the  orchestra,  and  endowed  as 
I  was  by  an  all-foreseeing  providence  with  a 
long  and  adaptable  neck,  which  I  now  craned, 
[211  1 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

I  beheld  that  myriad-minded  man  washing  the 
grease  paint  from  off  the  grubby  countenances 
of  the  Children  of  Israel. 

Back  tore  the  Abbe,  leaving  human  eddies 
in  his  wake.  He  rapped  so  loudly  for  attention 
that  he  cracked  his  baton.  He  shouted  hoarse 
and  impassioned  but  precise  directions  to  an 
invisible  electrician.  Everybody  was  on  the 
qui  Vive.  For  at  the  foot  of  the  programme  in 
heavy  type  stood: 

APOTHEOSE  A  LA  FRANCE  ET  CHANT  DE 
LA  MARSEILLAISE 

But  when  the  curtain  finally  rolled  up  its  full 
majestic  height,  we  beheld  the  allies  grouped, 
each  under  his  own  flag.  The  ensuing  perform- 
ance of  the  French  national  hymn  lacked  vol- 
ume, so  com_pletely  were  we  all  stupefied  by  the 
beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  spectacle. 

It  was  getting  on  toward  the  dinner  hour. 
I  reached  for  the  blouse,  but  felt  a  detaining 
hand  on  my  arm.  '^Encore  la  Marseillaise T^ 
whispered  my  fellow  'cello. 
[  212  ] 


MY    BOW    SAVES   EGYPT 

"All  right!"  I  played  with  a  will,  faking  an 
even  richer  bass  than  the  first  time,  when  I, 
too,  had  been  slightly  overcome  by  what  I  had 
seen  on  the  stage.  We  made  an  end. 

"Now,  then,"  shouted  the  good  Abbe  (I  give 
the  gist  of  his  utterance),  "all  together  chant 
yet  again  the  Marseillaise^  and  put  your  backs 
into  it  this  timel" 

But  when  we  were  through  putting  our  backs 
into  it,  I  did  not  even  make  a  pass  for  the 
blouse.  I  had  lost  hope.  Nor  was  my  state  of 
mind  unjustified.  Eleven  times,  hand  rimning, 
by  actual  count,  did  we  perform  the  national 
hymn  of  France! 

At  length  the  Abbe,  definitively  casting 
down  his  ruined  baton,  made  for  the  stage  door 
at  top  speed.  To  my  surprise  and  no  small  em- 
barrassment, however,  he  did  not  burst  as 
usual  into  the  wings.  Instead,  he  stopped  di- 
rectly behind  me,  leaned  over  the  railing  of  the 
orchestra,  flung  his  arms  about  my  neck,  and 
acclaimed  me  distinctly  before  the  interested 
audience  as  the  savior  of  Joseph,  the  Children 
[  213  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

of  Israel,  the  science  of  four-part  harmony,  and 
the  immortal  Mehul.  And,  working  up  to  an 
impassioned  climax,  *' Monsieur  le  Lieutenant 
AmSricainy''  said  he,  "will  you  not  deign  to 
bear  me  company  around  the  comer?  There,  on 
the  sidewalk  before  the  Cafe  de  Monte  Carlo, 
shall  I  invite  you  to  join  together  with  me  in 
an  aperitif.  Thanks  to  you,  Egypt  is  saved!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 


UN  MOMENT  d'aMOUR 


WITH  many  thanks  I  declined  this  invi- 
tation, Priscilla  was  expecting  me  that 
very  minute,  and,  besides,  I  was  cumbered 
with  the  wretched  'cello,  the  returning  of  which 
would  make  me  even  later. 

The  little  Abbe  seemed  much  cast  down.  He 
insisted  that  he  would  like  to  do  something  for 
me  to  show  the  boundlessness  of  his  gratitude. 
That  gave  me  an  inspiration. 

"Abbe,"  I  said,  "do  you  see  this  burden?" 

I  indicated  the  'cello. 

"Well,  it  took  me  a  year  and  a  half  to  learn 
how  to  carry  a  'cello  safely  through  the  streets 
of  a  city.  But  I  have  come  to  perceive  that  you 
are  a  man  capable  of  mastering  any  subject 
at  a  glance.  You  are  the  most  universally 
versatile  genius  of  my  acquaintance.  Could 
you  —  would  you  —  restore  this  dog-house  to 
its  rightful  owner?" 

[215] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

Before  the  words  were  well  out  of  my  mouth, 
the  Abbe  Quillper  had  torn  the  dog-house  from 
my  clutches  with  glad  cries  of  satisfaction  and 
assurances  of  his  perfect  competency,  and  had 
vanished  with  it. 

I  hastened  to  Priscilla's  hotel.  It  was  late, 
and  I  had  now  no  time  to  concoct  a  careful 
proposal.  I  would  have  to  rely  upon  the  in- 
spiration of  the  moment.  But  I  thought  again 
of  her  angelically  friendly  attitude  the  evening 
before,  and  how  her  little  hand  had  snuggled 
down  inside  mine.  And  I  took  heart.  After  all, 
we  had  been  going  to  be  married  once  upon  a 
time.  What  was  this  but  a  renewal  of  those  old 
days? 

We  went  to  La  Belle  Jardiniere  on  account 
of  the  amazing  array  of  hors  d'oeuvres  we  were 
sure  to  find  there.  And  such  service!  I  had  not 
yet  removed  my  overcoat  when  the  waiter 
thrust  an  enormous  wine-card  insistently  under 
my  nose. 

"  Un  moment,''  said  I  with  a  superb  copy  of 
my  late  feUow  'cello's  accent. 
[216] 


UN    MOMENT   D'AMOUR 

**Ouiy  ouiy  monsieur,*^  he  cried  with  anxious 
deference,  '*toute  de  suite  T^ 

He  whisked  away  the  card  and  ran  to  the 
maitre  iT hotel.  We  heard  him  say:  '^M'sieu  dS^ 
sire  une  houteille  de  ^  Un  Moment.^ "  And  they 
began  exhaustive  researches  through  the  list 
for  this  novel  brand  of  wine. 

Priscilla  and  I  laughed  delightedly.  And  she 
laughed  still  more  when  I  recounted  to  her  the 
multifarious  activities  of  the  good  Abbe  Quill- 
per,  and  the  "  wn  moment "  I  had  spent  in  await- 
ing the  apotheosis  of  France.  We  had  so  much 
to  tell  each  other,  and  the  food  was  so  interest- 
ing, that  I  had  even  less  time  than  during  the 
performance  of  "Joseph''  to  formulate  my 
plan  of  attack. 

But  now  I  had  stopped  worrying.  The  mel- 
low substitute  for  the  bottle  of  "  Un  Moment^* 
and  the  sweet  friendliness  which  Priscilla  gave 
me,  combined  to  render  me  nearly  assured  of 
success,  and  I  talked  on  victoriously.  We  were 
both  of  us  wildly  excited  and  very  happy. 

The  dinner  finished  with  a  f  elite  verre  of 
[  217  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

apricot  brandy  which  made  me  feel  entirely 
confident  and  confiding.  I  proposed  a  walk 
on  the  beach.  Priscilla  liked  the  idea.  And 
as  soon  as  we  reached  it  I  felt  I  must  be- 
gin at  once  to  pave  the  way  for  the  great 
moment. 

My  heart  was  pounding  away  faster  than  the 
Abbe's  elbows  as  he  had  made  for  the  stage 
door.  But  it  was  high  with  courage.  I  felt 
that  there  could  be  no  misunderstandings  with 
Priscilla  now.  We  knew  each  other  far  too  well 
for  that. 

There  was  a  small  semicircle  of  white  sand  in 
front  of  a  screen  of  rocks  and  there  we  settled 
down  together  and  looked  out  across  the  silver 
ripples  toward  Africa.  Daring  greatly,  my  hand 
stole  about  her  waist.  She  leaned  a  little  closer, 
relaxing  against  my  shoulder  with  a  sigh  of 
content.  My  dear  little  Priscilla! 

"Priscilla,  dear,"  I  whispered,  "it's  abso- 
lutely perfect,  is  n't  it,  now?" 

"Now?  Just  what  do  you  mean  by  *now'?" 
she  asked  with  a  certain  quality  of  surprise  in 
[  218  ] 


UN   MOMENT    D'AMOUR 

her  voice.  She  drew  away  from  me  a  little.  But 
I  heeded  no  danger  signal. 

"You  know  what  I  mean  perfectly  well," 
said  I  airily.  "You  were  adorable  before,  ex- 
cept for  one  thing  —  the  way  you  pounded  the 
piano,  you  know.  But  last  night,  when  I  heard 
how  deliciously  soft  you  had  learned  to  play, 
and  what  a  great  artist  you  had  become,  my 
heart  sort  of  turned  a  summersault.  From  that 
moment  I  began  to  love  you  more  than  I  ever 
dreamed  was  possible.  That  made  things  abso- 
lutely perfect.  •  .  •  Why,  Priscilla,  what's  the 
matter,  dear?" 

For,  as  I  ended,  Priscilla  had  suddenly  stiff- 
ened within  my  arm.  And  now  she  leaped  to 
her  feet  and  stood  very  straight  and  proud 
before  me,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"So  that's  what  you  have  to  have  before 
your  lordship  lets  himself  love  a  girl!"  she 
cried  —  "a  piano  virtuoso!" 

She  caught  her  lower  lip  in  her  teeth  to 
steady  it. 

I  scrambled  upright. 

[  219  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

"That^s  not  so,"  I  protested,  "and  you 
know  it!  It's  you  I  care  about.  Don't  be  so 
unjust,  Priscilla.  I  love  you  for  yourself.  Only, 
your  wonderful  playing  makes  you  all  the  more 
perfect." 

She  tried  to  snap  her  jBngers. 

"I  would  n't  give  that  for  the  devotion  of  a 
man  who  could  let  a  thing  like  music  make  the 
least  difference  in  his  feelings.  If  you  truly  loved 
me,  you'd  love  me  just  the  same  whether  I 
played  like  Moiseiwitch  or  took  two  rungs  out 
of  a  chair  and  beat  the  piano  like  a  carpet!" 

I  was  paralyzed,  speechless.  As  I  stood  there, 
stupidly  casting  about  in  my  mind  for  some 
convincing  argument,  Priscilla  turned  and 
made  matters  still  worse  by  walking  rapidly 
away.  I  had  to  exert  myself  to  overtake  her. 

"My  dear  —  " 

"  I  'm  not  your  dear !  You  'd  better  be  careful ! 
I  might  strike  a  wrong  note  sometime.  Then 
you'd  be  sorry  you'd  ever  associated  with  — 
with  me." 

She  was  crying;  but  she  was  unmistakably 
I  220  ] 


UN    MOMENT    D'AMOUR 

angry,  too.  There  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind 
that  I  had  hurt  her  feelings  and  her  pride  in- 
tensely. Yet  how  innocently  I  had  spoken! 

"Priscilla,"  I  pleaded,  "I  love  you  so  tre- 
mendously. I  thought  we  had  come  so  close 
together  and  understood  one  another  so  well. 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I  was  sure 
you'd  understand  what  I  really  meant.  I 
never  dreamed  you'd  get  jealous  of  my  love 
for  your  art." 

"You  and  your  love  of  art!"  she  cried.  "You 
love  art  so  —  I  don't  see  what  you  want  to 
bother  with  girls  for!  Buy  yourself  an  auto- 
matic piano-player  and  live  with  it.  You  can 
regulate  it  to  please  yourself.  You  don't  need 
me!" 

We  had  reached  her  gate  and  she  marched 
in  and  shut  me  out. 

I  grew  desperate. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  I  cried.  "Don't  go  this  way  1 
Tell  me  when  I  can  see  you  again." 

"I'm  very  busy  these  days,"  she  said  bit- 
terly. "I'm  married  to  the  Y.M.C.A.  And 
[  221  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

you're  married  to  your  old  'cello.  This  is  where 
our  ways  part.  You  Ve  made  enough  unhappi- 
ness  in  my  life  already.  I  don't  intend  to  speak 
to  you  or  see  you  again/' 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  angry.  If  she  had 
really  loved  me,  the  Y.M.C.A.  should  not  have 
counted  in  her  life  at  all  —  nor  yet  the  fact 
that  I  had  a  reasonable  regard  for  the  right 
kind  of  playing. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  MODERN  NERO 

THAT  was  what  I  felt  like  — a  modem 
Nero,  fiddling,  with  a  heart  gloomy  and 
imsatisfied,  while  Paris  burned  with  joy  and 
blazed  with  glory  at  the  coming  of  President 
"  Veal-sohn.'*  After  the  stygian  darkness  of  the 
era  of  air-raids,  this  sudden  illumination  gave 
the  illusion  that  the  city  was  on  fire.  Certainly 
most  human  hearts,  except  mine,  were.  There 
is  a  flavor  of  death  in  every  parting,  especially 
when  lovers  part  in  anger,  and  my  heart  felt 
as  though  it  had  caught  the  infection  at  that 
gate  in  Nice. 

I  had  traveled  all  the  way  up  to  Paris,  os- 
tensibly to  see  my  fellow  Princetonian  come  to 
town,  though  my  real  reason  was  to  get  as  far 
away  from  all  recollections  of  Priscilla  as  pos- 
sible. I  had  poured  out  my  Priscillan  sorrows 
to  my  dear  adopted  family,  and  they  consoled 
me  in  various  ways.  The  youngest  sister,  the 
[  223  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

one  whom  I  had  originally  addressed  on  the 
street  comer  because  she  played  the  violin,  and 
whom  I  had  nicknamed  "The  White  Ele- 
phant," was  of  a  romantic  turn  of  mind.  She 
kept  assuring  me  tenderly  that  all  would  yet  be 
well,  and  that  Priscilla  and  I  would  meet  again 
in  a  mood  of  mutual  forgiveness  for  everything 
musical  or  unmusical  that  we  had  ever  done 
to  one  another.  The  sister  known  as  "The 
Fairy"  was  a  sterner  soul.  She  essayed  to  com- 
fort me  by  explaining  that  a  girl  with  a  temper 
like  Priscilla's  was  not  good  enough  for  me  any- 
way, and  should  be  forgotten.  But  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  delightful  "Pink  Elephant,"  aged 
fourteen,  seemed  to  have  the  most  sense  of 
all.  This  was  that  I  should  clear  my  mind  of 
Priscilla,  temporarily,  while  the  rejoicing  over 
"  Veal-sohn"  was  at  its  height,  and  then  await 
developments.  This  plan  I  resolved  to  carry 
out  as  best  I  could. 

Guided  by  a  goodly  selection  of  adopted 
family,  I  saw  the  makers  of  history  ride  down 
the  Avenue  du  Bois  between  lines  of  folk  mad 
[  224  ] 


A    MODERN    HERO 

with  enthusiasm.  Then  the  family  took  me 
home  for  a  long  session  with  fiddler's  magic. 
And  after  dinner  we  all  issued  forth  to  join  the 
celebration  in  the  Grands  Boulevards.  Every- 
body was  agreed  that  Paris  was  going  madder 
over  "Veal-sohn"  than  it  had  gone  over  the 
armistice  itself.  Midnight  found  us  sitting  upon 
the  sidewalk  tables  of  that  hub  of  the  universe, 
the  Cafe  de  la  Paix.  In  the  immediate  foreground 
a  magnificent  Tpoilu  was  dancing  gracefully  with 
a  beautiful  slim  girl,  very  chic  under  a  scarlet 
Moroccan  fez.  Just  beyond  them  a  heavy  Ger- 
man mortar  was  being  propelled  by  as  many 
mixed  poilus  and  doughboys  as  could  get  their 
hands  on  it,  while  every  inch  of  riding  surface 
held  soldiers  waving  great  flags  of  silk  which 
had  evidently  been  borrowed  from  some  im- 
posing fagade. 

Beyond,  up  to  the  very  portals  of  the  Opera 
seethed  a  vast  throng.  We  forced  our  way  to- 
ward the  speakers  on  the  steps.  A  spokesman 
would  cry,  "See  —  lonceT'  and  the  cry  would 
be  translated  into  terms  of  martial  music  by  a 
[  225  1 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

poilu  bugler.  Then  the  speaker  would  propose 
a  cheer  for  "Veal-sohn"  or  Clemenceau  or 
Foch  or  some  allied  crowned  head,  and  we 
would  all  cheer  ourselves  hoarse. 

There  were  a  few  casually  assembled  horns 
and  trumpets  with  the  speaker,  and  every  few 
moments  they  would  break  forth  into  some 
national  hymn,  soon  to  be  overwhelmed  in  a 
flood  of  song.  Once  they  burst  into  "Tippe- 
rary,"  and  then  everybody  danced  in  a  frantic 
manner,  careening  and  caroming  into  all  and 
sundry,  and  sang  as  they  danced.  I  wish  I  had 
a  dictaphone  record  of  the  exact  words  sung  by 
each  member  of  that  polyglot  throng! 

Every  one  seemed  to  feel  that  he  must  do 
what  he  could  to  add  vigor  to  the  celebration. 
There  was  a  wounded  second  lieutenant  of  In- 
fantry, U.S.A.,  who  was  too  lame  to  dance  and 
too  hoarse  to  sing  any  more.  So,  at  some  risk 
and  pains,  he  climbed  upon  the  head  of  one 
of  the  marble  statues  on  the  fagade  of  the 
Opera,  just  behind  the  band.  It  was,  I  think, 
the  statue  of  old  Cherubini,  equipped  with  a 
[  226  ] 


A   MODERN   NERO 

lyre  and  trying  to  look  like  Apollo.  And  there 
sat  the  shavetail  on  Cherubini's  ambrosial 
locks,  waving  together  two  large  French  and 
American  flags  back  and  forth  over  our  heads. 
He  was  a  splendid-looking  young  chap  with  a 
curly  blond  head,  and  he  made  a  picture  that 
appealed  greatly  to  the  crowd. 

The  next  day  I  began  a  search  through  the 
music  stores  of  Paris  in  order  to  enrich  the 
musical  library  of  my  adopted  sister  who 
played  the  'cello.  But  France,  it  appeared,  was 
practically  sold  out  of  good  music;  and  no  more 
could  as  yet  be  obtained  from  beyond  the 
Rhine.  So  I  bethought  me  of  a  famous  pianist 
whom  I  had  known  in  the  old  days.  He  pos- 
sessed all  chamber  music  and  would  probably 
loan  me  anything  I  wanted. 

The  way  led  down  past  Balzac's  house  into 
one  of  the  oldest  and  quaintest  parts  of  Paris. 
I  was  recognized  at  once  and  cordially  wel- 
comed. 

"Just  the  chap  we  want!"  exclaimed  the 
pianist.  "We  were  longing  for  a  'cellist.  Now 
[  227  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

you  must  stay  to  dinner  and  then  we  will  have 
some  trios  with  my  friend  here."  He  introduced 
me  to  a  violinist  whom  I  had  often  seen  playing 
in  the  Lamoreaux  Orchestra.  "But  hold  on!'' 
he  suddenly  cried,  with  one  of  those  lightning 
changes  from  gayety  to  despair  which  are 
characteristic  of  the  musical  plus  the  Gallic 
temperament.  "I  forgot.  You  must  not  stay  to 
dinner  after  all.  We  have  recently  turned  vege- 
tarians. You  would  scorn  our  food.  And  be- 
sides, it  occurs  to  me  that  we  have  no  'cello 
for  you.  Without  a  'cello  trios  cannot  exist." 

"That  is  easily  arranged,"  I  reassured  him, 
with  that  resourcefulness  which  is  inculcated 
in  army  regulations.  "I'll  just  slip  out  and  buy 
my  own  dinner  and  bring  it  back  to  eat  with 
you,  and  incidentally  pick  up  a  'cello  on  the 
way." 

The  brow  of  the  great  pianist  cleared. 

"Ah,  you  Americans!"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
homage  I  render  your  elaUy  your  energy  and  re- 
source, your  —  how  do  you  call  it  —  peppair. 
But  wait,  then,  I  myself  will  accompany  you, 
[  228  ] 


A   MODERN   NERO 

for  I  know  the  shops  of  the  quarter  perhaps 
better  than  you." 

On  my  way  there  I  had  noticed  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  fiddle  doctor,  in  the  window  of 
which  reclined  a  voluptuous-looking  golden- 
brown  'cello.  Thither  we  hastened,  and  found 
the  doctor  in  the  act  of  putting  up  his  shut- 
ters. I  seized  the  golden-brown  one,  played 
some  flourishes  upon  her,  chattered  much  bad 
French  to  her  owner,  while  showing  him  my 
identification  tag  and  the  little  oilcloth-covered 
book  containing  the  oflScially  stamped  army 
photograph,  where  I  look  like  a  condemned 
murderer  backed  up  against  a  stone  wall  and 
peering  in  a  dazed  manner  down  the  muzzles 
of  the  firing  squad. 

The  doctor  could  not  read  a  word  of  any  of 
this  literature.  But  by  that  time  he  was  smok- 
ing one  of  my  cigarettes  and  clutching  one  of 
my  five-franc  notes.  Without  a  struggle  he  al- 
lowed the  voluptuous  'cello  to  depart  under 
my  arm  for  the  evening,  merely  telling  me  that 
her  name  was  Heloise. 

[  229  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

We  then  bought  patSs  de  fois  gras  and  wine, 
delicious  pears  and  mandarins,  and  tried  to 
get  a  little  cheese.  Only,  my  unpractical  vir- 
tuoso, in  his  entire  innocence  of  weights  and 
measures,  succeeded  in  securing  me  a  wedge  of 
Gruyere  large  enough  to  sustain  a  platoon  of 
infantry. 

It  then  remained  only  to  supplement  my 
friend's  bread  supply.  By  this  time,  however, 
all  the  bread  shops  were  closed.  But  we  espied 
a  light  in  a  room  adjoining  one,  and,  dimly 
through  the  pane,  discerned  a  long,  luscious- 
looking  loaf. 

I  rapped  on  the  door.  No  answer.  I  pounded 
with  more  vigor.  No  response.  I  applied  my 
foot  to  that  door  as  resolutely  as  the  pupil  of 
Franck  had  applied  hers  to  the  loud  pedal. 
The  door  was  pushed  open  an  inch. 

Bread?  No.  There  was  no  bread  left.  And 
did  we  not  discern  how  advanced  the  hour  was? 

"Oh,  but  what  was  that  delicious-looking  ob- 
ject I  saw  through  the  window  la  basf  I  in- 
quired, ostentatiously  flirting  the  cigarette  case. 
[  230  ] 


A    MODERN    NERO 

**Mais  ouiy  monsieur ^^  said  Madame^  relent- 
ing all  at  once.  "But  to  misters  the  Americans 
we  have  no  choice  but  to  yield  all!  Bread  shall 
you  have  —  bread,  indeed,  from  oflF  our  very 
own  table/' 

As  we  entered  the  outer  door,  grandfather, 
grandmother,  husband,  wounded  son,  well  son, 
and  countless  daughters  streamed  from  the 
rear  into  the  little  shop,  while  Madame  tore 
oflf  my  bread  tickets  and  attacked  the  loaf  as 
if  she  were  going  for  a  Boche  with  a  trench 
knife,  and  I  purveyed  cigarettes  to  all  and 
sundry. 

Our  communal  meal  was  highly  successful. 
And  the  trio  evening?  Alas!  it  came  to  nothing 
after  all.  I  had  forgotten  to  provide  Heloise 
with  a  bow,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to  go  back 
for  one. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

I  BUNK  WITH  THE  STRAD 

TWO  months  after  the  armistice  found  me 
still  in  hospital.  I  might  have  gone  home 
as  a  convalescent.  But  as  I  had  been  shot  the 
very  first  time  I  went  over  the  top,  and  had 
been  prevented  from  performing  that  maneu- 
ver again  by  the  victorious  eastward  advance 
of  the  German  forces  on  the  western  front 
while  I  still  cumbered  Base  Fourteen,  I  felt 
that  I  had  not  yet  been  given  a  fair  chance  at 
the  war.  It  was  my  duty  to  go  to  Germany. 

The  more  so,  because  at  Camp I  had 

helped  weed  out  of  the  American  army  many 
of  those  loyal  scions  of  the  Fatherland  who 
were  more  at  home  than  the  rest  of  us  in  the 
use  of  the  German  language.  I  felt  that  our 
unlinguistic  Army  of  Occupation  could  find 
use  for  that  knowledge  of  the  Boche,  his  land 
and  his  language,  which  I  had  painfully  ac- 
quired years  before  in  writing  a  series  which 
[  232  ] 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

had  been  ordered  by  a  magazine  on  the  beau- 
ties and  charms  of  Germany.  But  a  more  po- 
tent reason  was  my  desire  to  seek  some  land 
that  would  not  remind  me  of  Priseilla.  How 
agreeable  when  the  lion,  Duty,  lies  down  with 
the  lamb,  Inclination! 

So,  for  six  days,  I  chaperoned  a  couple  of 
hundred  healed  heroes  back  to  the  79th  Divi- 
sion in  the  Verdun  country,  via  those  doughboy 
Pullmans  elegantly  labeled 


HOMMES  40 
CHEVEAUX  8 


This  watchword,  by  the  way,  had  become  so 
proverbial  among  us  that  the  newspaper  of  our 
hospital  center  had  placed  it  in  a  "box"  at  the 
top  of  its  first  page,  instead  of  such  well-worn 
mottoes  as  In  God  we  trust,  or  What  is 
Home  without  a  Top  Sergeant? 

On  my  way  back  to  rejoin  the  313th  Infan- 
try, however,  I  was  set  upon  by  a  high-up 
oflScer,  a  major  who  had  gone  through  college 
[  233  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

with  two  of  my  nephews.  One  of  the  most  en- 
livening things  about  the  A.E.F.  was  the  way 
one  was  always  running  into  one's  former  over- 
lords and  past-masters  doing  K.P.  as  buck 
privates;  or  else  discovering  in  one's  proud 
maple-leaf  and  buzzard-decked  superiors,  for- 
mer infants  in  arms  whom  one  had  favored 
with  sage  and  condescending  advice.  This  par- 
ticular playmate  of  my  little  nephews  immedi- 
ately caused  me  to  be  created  something  known 
as  "Asst.  G  3,"  which  really  meant  that  I  was 
to  write  the  division  history. 

It  soon  became  evident  to  me,  however,  that 
this  occupation  was  not  getting  me  any  nearer 
my  goal;  that,  in  fact,  the  79th  Division  was 
not  slated  for  the  Rhine.  So  I  laid  hold  of  all 
the  wires  in  sight,  and  pulled.  I  wanted  to 
know  how  much  of  a  difference  there  was  be- 
tween entering  Germany  as  a  magazine  writer 
and  entering  it  as  a  conqueror.  Then,  too,  I 
suspected  that  a  musical  vagabond  might  find 
there  an  opportunity  for  some  diverting  ad- 
ventures. 

[  234  ] 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

The  other  ends  of  the  wires  I  pulled  were 
fortunately  secured  to  the  right  parties.  After 
three  weeks  I  was  summoned  to  the  C.O.'s 
oflSce  and  was  shown  a  telegram  from  the  head 
of  the  A.E.F.  ordering  me  to  report  forthwith 
for  duty  on  detached  service  at  Advance  Gen- 
eral Headquarters,  Treves,  Germany. 

With  rejoicing  I  took  my  way  to  Treves. 
The  third  day  found  me  settled  there  and  ask- 
ing the  same  old  question  I  always  ask  when  I 
strike  a  new  place  and  am  'celloless : 

** Where  is  the  best  'cello  in  town?" 

My  new  task  was  to  help  regulate  the  com- 
merce of  that  portion  of  Germany  occupied  by 
the  Yankees.  I  needed  a  little  music  in  the 
evenings  as  a  countercharm. 

Neither  my  colonel  brother  nor  my  lieuten- 
ant nephew  seemed  to  know,  although  my 
brother  dispassionately  advised  me  to  get  hold 
of  some  bull-fiddle  "toot  sweet,"  as  a  fine 
pianist  was  stopping  at  our  hotel,  the  Porta 
Nigra  for  that  night  only. 

So  I  inquired  at  the  leading  music  store,  and 
[  235  1 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

was  answered  by  the  proprietress  in  perfect 
United  States.  She  explained  that  she  came 
from  St.  Louis,  had  married  a  German  before 
the  war,  and  when  the  doughboys  had  first 
marched  through  on  their  way  to  Coblenz 
bridgehead,  she  had  actually  seen  her  own 
brother  in  the  ranks. 

"Where  is  the  best  'cello.f^"  She  assured  me 
it  was  in  the  possession  of  Dr.  Matteus  who 
would  doubtless  be  glad  to  show  it  to  me.  The 
doctor  proved  to  be  a  collector  of  'cellos.  He 
showed  them  to  me  readily  enough.  But  he  cast 
sidelong  glances  at  my  Sam  Browne,  and  I 
could  see  that  he  was  consumed  with  a  secret 
fear  lest  I  requisition  the  lot.  When  I  reassured 
him  on  this  point,  he  was  so  relieved  that  he 
brought  out  of  hiding  his  chief  treasure.  Shades 
of  Amphion,  Orpheus,  and  Apollo!  It  was  a 
twin  of  poor  dear  Josephine,  that  incomparable 
Strad  which,  fresh  from  my  worshiping  hands, 
had  but  a  few  weeks  ago  been  shivered  to 
fragments  on  the  floor  of  the  Pole's  music-room 
in  Nice. 

[  236  ] 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

I  fell  upon  her  satin  neck  and  played  a  loud, 
exultant  strain  of  Tschaikowsky.  The  doctor's 
face  worked  painfully.  He  explained  that  he 
had  just  served  four  years  on  the  western  front 
as  major,  and,  as  his  hands  had  become  so  stiflf 
that  he  could  no  longer  play  the  'cello,  and  as 
this  was  the  first  music  he  had  heard  since 
August,  1914,  I  must  really  pardon  him  if  he 
seemed  upset. 

An  American  lieutenant  came  into  the  room 
just  then,  to  bid  the  doctor  farewell.  He  flour- 
ished his  travel  orders  at  me  in  a  gleeful  man- 
ner and  explained  that  he  had  been  billeted  in 
the  doctor's  house,  but  was  now  on  his  way  to 
a  still  more  attractive  place  where,  in  fact,  a 
certain  well-developed  young  lady  was  brand- 
ishing a  shower-bath  fixture  at  the  stars  in 
upper  Manhattan  Bay. 

I  fiddled  him  an  appropriate  strain  called, 
"I  wanta  go  home!"  on  the  twin  of  Josephine, 
and  explained  what  a  wonder  she  was. 

"Look  here,  Lieutenant,"  said  he,  "if  you 
like  that  fiddle  so  much,  why  not  come  to  the 
[  237  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

house  for  keeps  and  bunk  with  her?  Just  get 
the  billeting  oflBcer  to  fix  you  up  with  my 
room.  I'm  digging  out  by  the  next  train." 

No  sooner  suggested  than  done.  Before  din- 
ner that  night  I  was  installed  in  a  room  fairer 
than  the  dreams  of  avarice,  that  looked  out 
over  a  lovely  garden  to  the  lovelier,  red  sand- 
stone, pine-crowned  cliflfs  beyond  the  Moselle. 
And  Josephine's  twin  lived  in  her  coffin  in  the 
corner  by  the  bed. 

That  evening  I  carried  her  over  to  the  Porta 
Nigra  to  make  music  with  the  pianist  my 
brother  had  told  me  of.  He  proved  to  be  a  shave- 
tail en  route  to  the  Army  of  Occupation  on  the 
Rhine.  When  all  the  officers  had  been  assem- 
bled in  the  hotel  parlor  and  I  had  tuned  up,  a 
difficulty  arose.  There  was  no  music.  The  meet- 
ing had  been  arranged  too  hastily. 

But  it  soon  developed  that  the  shavetail's 
memory  was  as  good  as  his  fingers.  We  found 
when  we  tried  that  the  standard  'cello  and 
piano  sonatas  had  worn  grooves  in  our  minds 
without  our  knowing  it.  And,  in  the  excite- 
[  238  ] 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

i 

ment  of  discovering  mutual  musical  compre- 
hension in  the  A.E.F.,  it  turned  out,  to  our 
pleased  surprise,  that  we  could  reproduce  large 
parts  of  the  Grieg,  Franck,  Strauss,  and  Bee- 
thoven sonatas. 

Next  morning  the  shavetail  went  his  way. 
But  he  had  whetted  my  appetite.  So  I  set 
forth  on  the  trail  of  fiddlers  militant. 

I  unearthed  a  large,  genial  corporal  who 
spent  his  days  in  the  post-oflBce,  combing  the 
mails  for  contraband.  At  home  he  was  the  lead- 
ing professional  fiddler  of  a  fairly  large  and 
sophisticated  city.  He  would  do  well  as  first 
violin  of  an  amateur  string  quartet.  A  small, 
meek  private  in  the  quartermaster  corps  was 
found  who  operated  the  viola  in  a  painless 
manner.  But,  as  usual,  my  chief  difficulty  came 
in  securing  that  fabulous  personage,  now  al- 
most as  extinct  as  the"  ichthyosaurus,  a  good 
second  fiddler.  The  reason  for  this  is  that  the 
bad  fiddlers  are  not  good  enough,  and  the  good 
ones  all  want  to  play  first. 

Finally  I  had  recourse  to  the  St.  Louis  music 
[  239  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

dealer  who  had  put  me  on  the  trail  of  Joseph- 
ine's twin.  She  said: 

"There  is  a  doctor  captain  in  your  hospital 
who  fiddles  excellently  and  is  a  most  intelligent 
and  genial  person." 

And  that  was  how  I  came  across  my  chum, 
Johnnie.  An  hour  after  I  had  called  him  up  I 
was  in  my  oiEce,  poring  over  a  letter  from  a 
frenzied  Luxembourg  manufacturer  who  had 
written  us  in  his  choicest  English.  It  closed  as 
follows: 

"We  hope  that  the  American  department 
may  accord  the  same  what  the  German  depart- 
ment thought  to  can  allow  to  a  friend  of  the 
Allies;  otherwise  we  fail  to  desesperate  of  the 
humanity." 

The  door  burst  open  and  Captain  Johnnie, 
short,  plump,  and  forceful,  bore  exuberantly 
down  upon  me. 

"Lieutenant,  are  you  any  relation  to  the 
chap  who  writes  all  that  stuflP  in  the  maga- 
zines?" he  demanded  in  the  unprefaced  way 
which  I  was  to  learn  well. 
[  240  ] 


I   BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

I  showed  him  the  sort  of  literary  work  with 
which  I  was  wrestling  at  the  moment,  and  ex- 
plained that  though  my  relations  with  the  chap 
he  referred  to  had  once  been  of  an  intimate  na- 
ture, I  now  felt  as  if  our  intimacy  had  flourished 
several  lives  ago  on  distant  a  planet, 

Johnnie  laughed  over  the  Luxembourger's 
letter  and  wanted  to  know  what  was  all  this  I 
had  talked  into  the  telephone  about  getting  up 
an  amateur  string  quartet  in  the  A.E.F.  He 
confessed  that  his  fiddling  had  been  mostly  of 
the  solo  variety,  but  he  was  always  ready  to 
try  anything  new,  once.  I  told  him  about 
Josephine's  twin,  and  how  she  was  shrieking 
aloud  for  other  fiddles  to  have  some  fun  with. 
Then,  of  course,  I  had  to  go  back  and  tell  him 
about  Josephine,  and  all  the  other  fiddles  and 
fiddlers  I  had  had  the  good  luck  to  find  in 
France. 

"Son,"  quoth  Johnnie,  "that  sounds  posi- 
tively immoral.  You  talk  like  a  regular  polycel- 
list,  if  you  don't  mind  my  coining  a  word. 
But,"  he  continued  flatteringly,  "let  me  tell 
[  241  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

you  one  thing.  You're  wrong  about  your  good 
fortune.  The  luck  of  finding  a  four-leaf  clover 
or  a  Strad  consists  in  having  perceptions  keen 
enough  to  find  a  four-leaf  clover  or  a  Strad." 

That  very  evening  we  tried  out  the  proposed 
combination  of  fiddlers  in  the  spacious  hall  of 
the  billet  where  I  was  living  with  Josephine's 
twin.  The  acoustics  were  perfect.  We  found  the 
room  mysteriously  garnished  by  some  unseen 
hand  with  goblets  and  many  bottles  of  Moselle 
wine. 

Johnnie  claimed  he  was  having  the  time  of 
his  life.  He  was  so  enthusiastic  and  was  keyed 
up  so  highly  that  he  sat  poised  on  the  extreme 
outside  edge  of  his  seat,  and  whenever  a  solo 
fell  to  his  lot  he  became  inspired  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  gradually  rose  up  toward  the 
firmament  and  sat  on  the  atmosphere,  while 
unconsciously  stepping  upon  the  musical 
"exhilarator,"  and  increasing  the  pace  by 
twenty  miles  an  hour. 

His  effervescence  made  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  Olympian  calm  of  the  large  corporal,  to  the 
[  242  ] 


I   BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

shrinking  and  self-deprecatory  mien  of  the 
little  private  who  always  looked  as  if  hiding 
behind  his  viola,  and  the  stem,  field-marshal 
manner  which  Johnnie  attributed  to  me  when 
trying  to  rally  my  disorganized  forces  during 
one  of  his  solos. 

Johnnie  used  to  tell  his  friends,  with  glee,  of 
a  discussion  we  had  after  the  music  that  night 
in  which  he  claimed  (falsely,  I  am  sure)  that  I 
said  it  was  as  hard  for  a  confirmed  player  of 
solos  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  chamber 
music  as  for  a  rich  man  to  go  through  the  eye 
of  a  camel.  He  claims  I  followed  this  statement 
by  telling  him  that,  as  an  ensemble  player,  he 
must  be  a  very  fine  soloist.  But  I  indignantly 
repel  this  canard.  There  were  not  enough  bot- 
tles in  the  doctor's  cavernous  cellars  to  make 
me  as  unreservedly  frank  as  this  to  any  second 
violinist  whom  I  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
capture.  I  would  as  soon  dare  tell  the  cook  what 
I  thought  of  her. 

Sometimes,  during  these  quartet  evenings, 
the  owner  of  Josephine's  twin  would  drop  in 
[  243  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

for  a  movement  or  two,  and  listen  hungrily  to 
the  music.  Once,  when  a  Beethoven  quartet 
suffered  utter  annihilation  at  our  hands,  he 
chuckled  and  suggested  that  a  certain  war 
anecdote  might  perhaps  furnish  me,  as  leader, 
a  valuable  suggestion. 

In  the  course  of  an  examination  for  a  com- 
mission in  the  German  infantry,  a  candidate 
was  asked  what  command  he  would  give  if  his 
company  were  suddenly  attacked  on  all  sides 
by  overwhelming  numbers. 

^'Helme  ah  zum  GebetT'  he  answered  unhesi- 
tatingly: "Helmets  off  for  prayer!"  The  doctor 
evidently  felt  that,  instead  of  annihilating 
Fort  Beethoven,  the  forces  of  the  stronghold 
had  pulled  oflf  a  surprise  attack  on  us,  to  our 
undoing. 

Those  quartet  sessions  constituted  the  chief 
recreation  I  found  in  Treves.  The  one  other 
resource  was  to  go  to  the  opera.  But  I  soon 
discovered  that  going  there  netted  me  more 
pain  and  anguish  of  mind  than  pleasure.  For, 
though  the  stock  company,  the  orchestra,  and 
[  244  ] 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

the  repertoire  would  have  done  credit  to  a  city 
several  times  the  size  of  Treves,  yet  there  was 
always  some  one  on  hand  to  take  the  joy  out  of 
life-  This  one  generally  resolved  himself  into  a 
low-brow  American  oflScer  of  such  rank  that  I 
could  not  very  well  call  him  down,  who  would 
wander  in  out  of  the  cold  with  two  Red  Cross 
nurses,  and  they  would  lift  up  loud,  uncompro- 
mising voices  and  talk  straight  through  the 
show.  And  when,  about  the  middle  of  the  sec- 
ond act,  I  would  finally  throw  discretion  to  the 
winds,  because  my  mercury  had  risen  past 
summer  heat,  and  would  expostulate  with  the 
oflGicer,  one  of  his  fair  escorts  would  be  sure  to 
make  good  her  claim  to  being  a  red,  cross  nurse 
and  would  look  me  up  and  down  in  a  withering 
manner,  with  special  attention  to  the  solitary 
state  of  the  silver  bar  on  my  shoulder,  and 
shift  her  gum  to  the  other  cheek  and  then  in- 
quire shrilly: 

"Aw,  how  do  you  get  that  way?" 
Then  I  would  retreat  home  in  disorder,  full  of 
shame  at  my  brutality  to  a  lady  —  and  wonder 
[  245  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

with  equal  shame  what  the  conquered  popula- 
tion in  the  adjoining  seats  must  think  of  our 
tricks  and  our  manners. 

Therefore  the  amateur  evenings  filled  a  deeply 
felt  want.  There  was  one  particularly  memor- 
able moment  when,  in  the  middle  of  a  Haydn 
quartet,  we  suddenly  realized  that  we  were 
playing  the  variations  on  the  national  hymn  of 
the  then  defunct  Austrian  Empire.  We  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  a  phrase  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. There  were  we,  four  warriors  in  Yankee 
uniform,  sitting  upon  the  neck  of  prostrate 
Germany,  and,  filled  by  a  pure  and  impersonal 
passion  for  beauty,  fiddling  the  strains  which 
had  been  to  her  deceased  chief  ally,  what  the 
*' Star-Spangled  Banner"  was  to  us. 

"Look  here,"  exclaimed  Johnnie,  "we  must 
counteract  this ! " 

And,  tucking  his  fiddle  under  his  chin,  he 
led  off  in  a  spirited  performance  of  that  clas- 
sical air,  "Keep  Your  Head  Down,  Fritzie 
Boy!" 

In  course  of  time  I  was  transferred  to  the 
[  246  1 


I    BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

oflSce  of  the  Sanitary  Inspector  and,  it  having 
been  ascertained  that  I  had  once  written  po- 
etry, the  powers  directed  my  literary  energies 
to  translating  a  German  book  with  the  following 
lyrical  title:  ** Concerning  (Edema  with  Hy- 
pertonic Brachycardia."  As  a  change  and 
relaxation,  I  was  occasionally  allowed  to 
compute  the  birth  and  death  rates  for  all  the 
Kreise  of  the  American  occupied  area,  and 
make  an  intensive  study  of  the  ration  compo- 
nents. 

Johnnie  came  in  one  day,  glanced  over  my 
shoulder  at  a  masterpiece  of  the  translator's 
art  with  which  Edward  Fitzgerald  would  have 
hesitated  to  compete,  then  laid  a  compelling 
hand  upon  me. 

"Old  boy,"  he  said,  "now  at  last  I  under- 
stand why  you  have  been  looking  so  worn  and 
world-weary  and  frazzled  out  of  late.  At  first 
I  thought  you  might  be  suffering  from  a  broken 
heart  or  something."  Here  Johnnie  paused  and 
looked  me  over  inquiringly.  I  kept  my  coun- 
sel. "But  now,"  he  went  on,  "I  see  what  the 
[  247  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

trouble  is.  Let  me  have  your  full  attention.  I 
am  about  to  prescribe  for  you.  Go  down  this 
instant  to  the  Executive  Officer  and  get  a 
leave  from  Saturday  noon  to  early  Monday 
morning.  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  treatment 
later.  I'm  a  neurologist,  you  know,  so  you'll 
be  safe  in  my  hands." 

Whatever  may  have  been  his  shortcomings 
in  the  department  of  fiddling,  in  the  depart- 
ment of  neurology  Johnnie  spoke  as  one  having 
authority.  I  got  my  leave  and  joined  him  on  the 
train  for  Coblenz.  Arriving,  we  extorted  two 
cold-storage  beds  from  a  billeting  lieutenant 
with  the  instincts  of  a  pawnbroker  and  the  man- 
ners of  a  lieutenant-general.  We  dined  cheer- 
lessly on  the  same  old  army  horse  —  for  we  were 
still  in  the  self-denying  American  area  where  it 
was  forbidden  to  buy  German  food  —  and  then 
Johnnie  prescribed  for  me  a  performance  of 
"Rigoletto"  at  the  opera  house. 

He  meant  well.  Throughout  the  evening 
a  bronzed  American  captain  behind  me  kicked 
time  to  the  music  on  the  rungs  of  my  chair  with 
[  248  ] 


I   BUNK    WITH    THE    STRAD 

a  powerful  hobnailed  boot;  and  this  amused 
Johnnie  more  than  it  did  me.  In  fact,  he  shook 
all  over  with  enjoyment,  thus  dulling  his  senses 
against  the  horrors  of  the  first  act,  because,  as 
he  afterwards  explained,  this  captain's  brand 
of  musical  appreciation  was  exactly  what  I  had 
fulminated  against  in  one  of  his  favorite  essays. 
I  myself  was  too  embittered  to  see  the  joke. 

Then,  at  the  beginning  of  that  arch-bore,  the 
second  act,  Johnnie  relapsed  into  a  profound 
slumber,  during  which,  I  regret  to  say,  he 
snored  like  an  impassioned  trombone.  I  let  him 
snore,  hoping  in  vain  that  his  contribution  to 
the  creative  labors  of  Verdi  would  dull  the 
enjoyment  of  the  rhythmical  captain  back  of 
me,  or  at  least  confuse  his  too  acute  sense  of 
rhythm  and  throw  his  foot  oflP  the  beat. 

Vain  hope!  The  captain  may  at  times  have 
faltered  more  or  less  in  his  great  task  of  happi- 
ness; but  his  hobnails,  like  the  soul  out  of  John 
Brown's  body,  went  marching  on,  on  my  chair, 
without  disturbing  Johnnie.  At  a  particularly 
ill-advised  howl  from  the  stage,  however,  oc- 
[  249  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

curring  just  before  the  close  of  the  act,  John- 
nie awoke  with  a  terrific  jolt,  as  of  a  flivver, 
driven  by  a  lady  who  mistakes  the  accelerator 
for  the  brake,  bringing  up  all  standing  against 
the  stone  wall  of  the  police  station. 

He  stole  a  stealthy  glance  at  me.  I  was  po- 
litely engrossed  in  the  stage.  The  curtain  fell. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  with  a  hint  of  the 
sheepish  in  his  tone,  "for  just  a  few  seconds 
back  there  I  got  the  least  bit  absent-minded.'* 

"Did  you?"  said  I  with  glee,  and  felt  much 
comforted.  Through  no  fault  of  Johnnie's,  I 
began  to  mend  from  that  moment. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  FALL  OF  FORT  BEETHOVEN 

THE  next  day  the  cure  was  continued 
by  a  pious  musical  pilgrimage  down  the 
Rhine. 

"Do  you  remember,"  asked  Johnnie  as  we 
entered  the  train,  "the  time  our  forces  met 
defeat  at  the  hands  of  Beethoven?  Well,  we're 
going  to  counter-attack  now.  We're  on  our  way 
to  his  stronghold  at  Bonn." 

Bonn  was  fortunately  situated  in  the  British 
occupied  territory,  where  the  invaders  were 
less  solicitous  than  we  Americans  as  to  just 
what  the  natives  were  to  eat,  and  in  conse- 
quence "did  themselves"  jolly  well.  In  a  dainty 
room  of  the  Kaiserhaus,  overlooking  the  Rhine 
bridge,  we  had  the  first  really  interesting  meal 
since  leaving  France,  and  washed  it  down  with 
good  old  Saint-Julien. 

At  half -past  two  we  were  standing  before  our 
goal,  the  birthplace  and  museiun  of  the  com- 
[251  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

poser  Beethoven,  and  eyeing  with  dismay  a 
placard  which  said: 

CLOSED  SUNDAYS  AT  2 

In  response  to  repeated  hammerings  an  old 
woman  opened  the  door  a  crack  and  showed  us 
a  forbidding  frown.  But  Johnnie  was  equal  to 
the  occasion.  Pulling  from  his  blouse  a  large 
slab  of  sweet  chocolate,  he  inserted  it  through 
the  aperture,  together  with  his  foot,  at  the 
same  time  reeling  off  a  lot  of  emotional  de- 
tails in  his  best  student  German  to  the  effect 
that  we  had  come  a  long  way  expressly  for  this 
pleasure  and  that  the  treaty  could  never  be 
properly  signed  until  we,  as  representatives  of 
the  American  Expeditionary  Force,  had  thor- 
oughly investigated  Beethoven. 

The  old  woman  clutched  the  chocolate  hun- 
grily, and  then,  in  a  dazed  manner,  bade  us 
enter,  mumbling  that  this  time  she  would  have 
to  make  in  our  case  an  Ausnahmey  that  elegant 
word  for  "exception"  which,  literally  trans- 
lated, is  an  "out-take." 

In  a  victorious  mood  we  plucked  souvenir 
[252  ] 


THE    FALL    OF    FORT    BEETHOVEN 

leaves  of  ivy  from  the  hand-made  statue  of  the 
master  in  the  back  yard,  and  mounted  the 
stairs.  Candor  obliged  us  to  confess  that  the 
birth  chamber  of  this  genius  was  not  the  most 
imposing  place  he  could  have  chosen  to  be 
born  in.  It  was  about  the  size  of  a  well-devel- 
oped bathroom,  with  a  rough-hewn  floor  and 
rougher  rafters  five  feet  above  it. 

We  cordially  shook  hands  with  the  miserable 
little  organ  on  which  Beethoven  had  learned  to 
play  as  a  lad  of  eleven.  And  Johnnie  cried  aloud 
in  anguish  at  sight  of  the  poor,  old  deaf  musi- 
cian's clumsy,  heavy,  ineflFective  brass  ear- 
trumpets,  which  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
the  Klaxon  on  an  early  Christian  Ford. 

**If  he  could  have  only  put  his  case  in  my 
hands!"  moaned  Johnnie,  apparently  in  the 
depths  of  despair.  "It  was  all  foolishness  for 
him  to  go  and  get  deaf  like  thatT' 

Then  we  came  to  the  gem  of  the  museum,  the 

manuscript  cases,  where  we  gloated  over  the 

originals  of  the  "Moonlight  Sonata,"  "Fide- 

lio,"  the  "Pastoral  Symphony,"  and  that  joy 

[  253  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

of  our  lives,  the  string  quartet  opus  59,  number 
3.  And,  to  inflame  us  further  and  make  our 
mouths  water  so  that  our  thirst  was  destined 
later  to  neutralize  much  German  beer,  we 
beheld,  hanging  in  a  glass  case  near  by,  the 
most  famous  quartet  of  fiddles  in  the  world,  the 
priceless  Amati,  Ruggeri,  and  Guarneris  which 
Prince  Lichnowsky  once  gave  the  master, 
thereby  proving  himself  a  true  prince. 

When  Johnnie  caught  sight  of  them  I  had  to 
hold  him  to  keep  him  from  running  up  the  walls 
in  his  frenzied  enthusiasm. 

"Just  let  me  get  at  those  beauties  in  there, 
once,"  he  cried,  "and  sit  down  with  three  good 
fiddlers  to  this!"  His  hand  rested  on  the  glass 
above  the  sere  and  yellow  leaves  of  opus  59. 
"And  you  might  fricassee  or  hash  me  after- 
wards, or  even  turn  me  over  to  Hard-Boiled 
Smith,  the  primitive  military  policeman  of 
Paris.  I  would  n't  complain.  I  should  have  had 
my  day!" 

"Johnnie,"  said  I,  "do  you  realize  that  this 
room  contains  about  the  best  things  that  Ger- 
[  254  ] 


THE    FALL   OF    FORT    BEETHOVEN 

many  has  managed  to  save  out  of  the  wreck- 
age? Do  you  realize  when  these  four  fiddles  were 
last  touched  by  human  hands?  It  was  when  the 
Joachim  Quartet  played  them  in  this  room  at 
the  Beethoven  festival  a  generation  ago." 

"Never  you  mind!"  cried  Johnnie.  "Times 
has  changed.  Love  and  chocolate  will  find  a 
way!" 

Then,  warming  to  the  subject,  "Why,  strike 
me  pink  if  we  don't  bring  our  corporal  and  our 
private  up  here  and  play  opus  59  on  the  great 
Beethoven  fiddles  this  day  week!" 

Alas !  It  was  not  to  be.  I  do  not  know  whether 
Johnnie  was  ever  temporarily  struck  pink.  He 
has  not  confessed.  His  bronzed  complexion,  I 
know,  would  absorb  a  considerable  bulk  of 
Mary  Garden  rouge  without  appreciable  im- 
provement. But  I  do  know  that  that  day  week 
I  was  on  my  way  to  "St.  Agony,"  the  place 
where  so  many  members  of  the  A.E.F.  went  first 
when  they  were  en  route  to  see  the  large  young 
lady  with  the  shower-bath  fixture  in  the  sweet 
land  of  liberty. 

[  255  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

On  the  return  journey  I  amused  myself  with 
reminiscences  of  the  previous  evening,  and 
could  not  resist  urging  Johnnie  to  tell  me  ex- 
actly how  it  felt  to  be  absent-minded,  and  then 
demanding  a  critical  estimate  of  the  second  act 
of  "Rigoletto/*  Driven  into  a  comer,  Johnnie 
confessed  that  he  could  not  describe  that  act, 
though  it  were  his  last.  But  he  soon  evened  the 
score. 

Our  compartment  in  the  leisurely  train  was 
infested  by  a  quartermaster  lieutenant  who 
entered  whistling  Schubert's  "Serenade"  and 
kept  on  whistling  Schubert's  "Serenade"  for 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  without  apparently 
drawing  breath.  He  made  an  even  more  con- 
tinuous non-stop  run  than  a  Big  Ben  alarm 
clock  when  thoroughly  alarmed.  I  tried  every- 
thing I  knew  to  divert  him  —  that  is,  within 
the  bounds  of  military  courtesy.  I  opened  con- 
troversies with  Johnnie  on  the  rawest  sides  of 
politics  and  religion.  The  lieutenant  whistled 
calmly  on.  I  handed  him  the  most  engrossing 
comic  papers  in  our  possession.  His  eyes  de- 
[  256  ] 


THE    FALL    OF    FORT    BEETHOVEN 

voured  them,  but  the  jokes  only  made  him  per- 
form more  piercingly  and  happily  than  ever. 
He  is  the  only  person  I  have  ever  overheard 
whistling  a  laugh,  and  I  never  want  to  hear 
another. 

I  "slaughtered  him  with  cruel  looks."  He 
inspected  me  in  return  as  if  I  were  some  freak 
ornithological  specimen,  but  Schubert's  "Sere- 
nade" flowed  on  like  Tennyson's  brook.  At  the 
end  of  the  three  quarters  of  an  hour  the  lieu- 
tenant stopped  and  drew  a  long  breath.  I  drew 
one,  too,  of  relief. 

But  my  hopes  were  dashed.  He  started  im- 
mediately on  another  time.  It  was  now  the 
"MMitation"  from  "Thais,"  that  ill-starred 
piece  which  had  been  the  basis  of  my  first 
youthful  quarrel  with  Priscilla.  I  reflected  with 
bitter  repentance  on  an  essay  I  had  once  pub- 
lished. It  was  entitled  "A  Defense  of  Whis- 
tling." Perhaps  that  miserable  infestantof  the 
S.O.S.  opposite  had  read  my  essay  and  it  had 
encouraged  him  to  form  this  habit!  I  could  see 
that  Johnnie,  fatally  well-read  where  I  was 
[  257  1 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

concerned,  was  thinking  of  that  essay  too,  and 
enjoying  himself  hugely.  Leaning  over,  he 
asked  me,  in  a  coarse  whisper,  what  I  now 
thought  of  the  advantages  of  absent-minded- 
ness. 

The  train  found  things  going  contrairy  ahead, 
and  crept  along  at  a  funereal  pace  in  keeping 
with  the  cheerfulness  of  my  own  mood.  That 
lieutenant  had  lungs  like  those  of  a  free  air 
machine.  I  felt  my  self-command  giving  way. 
What  can  be  more  trying  than  to  be  forcibly 
fed  and  then  forcibly  re-fed  for  two  hours  with 
a  draught  of  musical  molasses  like  that 
wretched  "Meditation"  from  "Thais"?  Not 
even  the  sight  of  the  hoary,  romantic  old  castle 
of  Drachenfels,  perched  above  the  Rhine,  al- 
layed my  agony.  And  Johnnie  had  lured  me 
into  this  to  soothe  my  nei:vous  system  I 

I  fidgeted.  I  twitched.  I  developed  incipient 
homicidal  mania.  The  train  stopped  at  a  way 
station.  With  my  reason  tottering  on  the  brink, 
I  sprang  convulsively  to  my  feet,  shot  a  glare 
of  fiendish  hatred  at  the  lieutenant,  and 
[  258  ] 


THE   FALL   OF   FORT   BEETHOVEN 

erupted  from  that  compartment  with  a  sense 

of  relief  such  as  must  have  been  experienced 

by  the  well-known 

"young  monk  of  Siberia, 
Whose  life,  it  grew  wearier  and  wearier. 

Till  he  burst  from  his  cell 

With  a  terrible  yell 
And  eloped  with  the  mother  superior.'* 

Regardless  of  the  absence  of  cushions  and 
the  presence  of  many  peasant  women  chape- 
roning geese  which  struggled  out  of  hampers,  I 
wedged  my  way  into  another  compartment. 
At  least  the  geese  could  not  whistle.  There  I 
sat,  evaporating  my  discomfiture,  and  striv- 
ing to  expel  from  a  raw  consciousness  the 
loathed  strains  which  the  lieutenant  had 

"Photographically  lined 
On  the  tablets  of  my  mind." 

When  I  rejoined  Johnnie  on  the  platform  at 
Coblenz,  his  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles  as 
though  he  remembered  something  amusing. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  I  demanded 
crossly. 

[  259  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

My  anger  threw  Johnnie  into  fits  of  laughter. 
He  wiped  away  a  furtive  tear. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  gasped,  "what  that 
whistling  disciple  of  yours  said  to  me  and  what 
I  said  to  him?" 

"No,  of  course  I  don't." 

"Well,  when  you  left  us  like  that  breakfast 
food  they  advertise  which  is  shot  out  of  a  gun, 
the  lieutenant  looked  after  you  curiously. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and  stopped  whistling 
long  enough  to  ask: 

"'Say,  Captain,  what  ailed  that  bird, 
anyway?* 

"I  looked  him  over  and  sized  him  up. 

"'Why,  you  see,'  I  said,  'he's  one  of  those 
unfortunate  people  who  hate  music.  Can't  go 
it  in  any  form.' 

"'That,'  said  the  lieutenant,  'is  a  thing  I'll 
never  understand.  Must  be  terrible  to  be  that 
way!'" 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  DUET  FOR  LIFE 

AS  soon  as  I  left  Johnnie's  enlivening 
sphere  of  influence  I  was  lost  in  the 
slough  of  despond.  If  I  had  been  King  Solomon 
I  would  have  declared  in  embittered  accents 
that  all  was  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  If 
I  had  been  the  Swan  of  Avon  I  would  have 
labeled  the  universe  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable. Being  me,  I  could  only  call  life  a 
rotten  sell.  I  saw  nothing  in  the  immensely 
overrated  institution.  In  vain  I  bade  myself 
buck  up  and  remember  that  I  was  returning 
to  the  land  of  the  free,  sound  in  wind  and  limb. 

The  answer  always  was : 

"What  good  is  that.^  Priscilla  has  gone  back 
on  me!" 

It  maddened  me  to  reflect  that  now,  if  ever, 

a  member  of  the  A.E.F.  ought  to  be  having  the 

time  of  his  life.  Starting  for  home  after  the 

Germans  had  been  licked?  Why,  mere  existence 

[  261  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

ought  to  be  worth  a  thousand  marks  a  second! 
And  here  was  I,  fishy-eyed  and  Hstless.  I 
could  not  even  work  up  a  thrill  at  thought  of 
the  shower-bath  fixture! 

I  spent  my  force  in  writing  long,  pleading 
letters  to  Priscilla,  begging  for  a  merciful  word 
and  giving  elaborate  directions  how  to  address 
the  envelope.  All  in  vain.  Never  a  line  from  her. 
I  hated  the  sight  of  a  piano.  The  more  I  pon- 
dered my  plight,  the  more  clearly  I  saw  that 
I  had  fallen  to  this  through  having  entertained 
such  absurdly  high-brow  notions  about  music. 
If  only  I  had  not  minded  a  little  piano-pound- 
ing, I  might  have  been  married  to  Priscilla 
long  ago.  But  my  case  was  hopeless.  If  two 
years  in  the  American  army,  which  made  itself 
known  from  end  to  end  of  every  place  it  went, 
by  its  continuous  and  cheerful  rendition  of  all 
the  worst  tunes,  could  not  cure  me,  in  spite 
of  constant  saturation  in  them,  of  a  hopeless 
passion  for  high-brow  music,  I  must  be  a 
chronic  prig.  It  was  all  up  with  me! 

Even  the  last  sight  of  my  dear  adopted  fam- 
[  262  ] 


A   DUET   FOR   LIFE 

ily  failed  to  resuscitate  me  as  I  passed  through 
Paris.  Ditto,  eight  days  of  waiting  around  and 
playing  interminable  solitaire  in  the  K.  of  C. 
hut  at  "St.  Agony."  Ditto,  a  week  in  the  for- 
bidding old  Fort  Bouguen  which  had  been 
turned  into  an  embarkation  camp  outside  of 
Brest,  for  the  purpose  of  treating  homeward- 
bound  warriors  like  ex-convicts  held  on 
suspicion. 

In  the  good,  old  rustic  phrase,  there  was 
nothing  to  "take  my  mind.''  When  I  tried 
tennis  on  the  rugged,  three-dimensional  courts 
behind  the  Red  Cross  hut,  I  could  not  tell 
whether  I  was  engaged  in  tennis  or  mountain- 
climbing,  and  desisted  in  confusion.  I  wandered 
into  the  A.L.A.  library.  The  very  first  book  I 
took  down  from  the  shelves  was  Woodrow 
Wilson's  "Washington,"  and  it  opened  at  once 
to  a  sentence  describing  certain  persons  who 
were  "blockaded  in  the  harbor  of  Brest."  This 
was  too  poignant.  I  cast  the  volume  down  in 
disgust.  And  from  then  on,  during  my  stay 
there,  all  books  looked  alike  to  me.  Even  soli- 
[  263  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

taire  began  to  pall.  And  I  dared  not  go  to  town 
much  for  fear  of  having  my  name  read  out  for 
instant  embarkation  as  soon  as  my  back  was 
turned. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
eighth  day,  and  I  was  shuffling  the  cards  for 
the  thousandth  time,  when  an  unusual  sound 
made  me  prick  up  my  ears.  A  private  was  call- 
ing my  name.  I  beckoned  him.  He  saluted  and 
said,  "You^re  wanted  on  the  'phone,  sir.'* 

Now,  I  usually  can  tell,  by  means  of  a  curi- 
ous sixth  sense,  who  is  calling  me  before  I  put 
the  receiver  to  my  ear.  But,  as  I  walked  over 
to  headquarters,  I  was  completely  at  a  loss. 
Of  late  I  had  been  feeling  most  unsocially  in- 
clined. So  far  as  I  knew,  I  did  not  have  a  single 
acquaintance  in  Brittany. 

I  put  the  instrument  to  my  ear  and  said 
"Hello." 

Not  a  word  came  in  reply.  Instead,  there 

was    the    sound    of    music.    The   tune    was 

vaguely  familiar.  I  began  to  listen  intently. 

Gracious  Heavens!  It  was  the  opening  strain 

[  264  ] 


A    DUET   FOR   LIFE 

of  that  little  Gurlitt  trio  which  Priscilla  and 
Bill  and  I  had  joined  in  at  our  very  first  meet- 
ing, back  there  in  the  days  when  all  the  world 
was  yoimg.  And  it  was  being  played  on  a 
piano  in  the  one  way  that  Priscilla,  and  no  one 
else,  could  play  it. 

"Priscilla!"  I  shouted  excitedly  into  the 
mouthpiece.  "Priscilla,  my  dear,  where  on 
earth  are  you?" 

The  music  ceased,  but  there  was  no  word. 

"My  dear,"  I  cried,  "speak  to  me!  Where 
are  you?  IVe  got  to  see  you  right  away,  toot 
sweet!" 

Again  a  sphinx-like  silence.  It  was  madden- 
ing. 

"Well,  anyway,"  I  called,  "won't  you  let  me 
know  your  plans?" 

I  stopped  again  and  listened  eagerly. 

There  was  a  slight  bumping  noise  as  if  the 
ear-piece  were  being  laid  down.  Abruptly  the 
unseen  piano  crashed  a  few  heavy  chords,  and 
I  recognized  them  as  the  opening  of  a  piece 
called  "Ocean,  thou  Mighty  Monster."  This 
[265] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

ended  in  mid-career  with  two  chords  of  great 
finality.  A  professor  of  harmony  would  have 
called  those  two  chords  a  "plagal  cadence." 
Church-goers  would  have  recognized  them  as 
the  musical  equivalent  of  "Amen." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  give  me  a 
chance?  ..." 

There  was  ever  so  faint  a  sound  as  of  a  gurgle 
of  soft,  mocking  laughter;  then  the  unmistak- 
able click  of  a  receiver  hanging  up.  And  the 
line  went  dead. 

The  interview  seemed  definitely  at  an  end. 

Frantically  I  rang  up  central  and  demanded 
where  that  last  call  had  come  from. 

"Could  n't  say,  sir,"  was  all  the  satisfaction 
I  got. 

Here  was  indeed  a  glorious  crisis.  Priscilla  in 
town,  and  in  a  communicative  mood,  even 
though  her  communications  were  limited 
strictly  to  music.  All  my  zest  in  the  game  of 
life  came  back  with  a  rush. 

Yes,  but  what  was  that  loud  thing  she  had 
played  when  I  asked  what  her  plans  were? 
[  266  ] 


A   DUET   FOR   LIFE 

**Ocean,  thou  Mighty  Monster."  Then  she 
must  be  on  the  brink  of  embarking  for  America. 
Now,  if  ever,  the  time  had  arrived  for  action! 

I  crammed  on  my  cap  and  dashed  for  Brest, 
reckless  whether  my  name  would  ever  be 
called.  I  burst  into  Signal  Corps  Headquarters, 
picked  out  the  most  intelligent-looking  ser- 
geant in  sight,  drew  him  aside,  and  slipped  a 
twenty-franc  note  into  his  palm. 

"Tell  me  quick  where  I'll  find  an  army 
'phone  in  the  same  room  with  a  piano." 

With  suspicious  suddenness  the  sergeant's 
face  turned  wooden. 

"Could  n't  say,  sir." 

I  drew  forth  fifty  francs. 

"No  use  holding  out  on  me,  Sergeant.  IVe 
simply  got  to  know." 

The  set  face  relaxed  into  a  slow  grin. 

"If  any  one  should  ask  you,  sir,  mind,  I  ain't 
told  you  nothin'.  We'd  do  any  thin'  to  oblige  as 
nice  a  Y  lady  as  that.  Ran  the  wire  in  there  last 
night  on  the  strict  Q.T." 

He  scribbled  an  address  on  a  slip  of  paper.  I 
[  267  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

was  so  exalted  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was 
doing.  I  handed  him  my  card  with  the  fifty 
francs  and  said:  "Hunt  me  up  some  day  on  the 
other  side.  If  this  turns  out  all  right  I'd  like  to 
do  something  for  you.'* 

Li  five  minutes  I  was  pulling  at  the  bell  of  an 
old  house  set  back  in  a  garden  on  a  height 
overlooking  the  harbor,  where  a  fiock  of  planes 
were  circling  above  a  bevy  of  dreadnoughts 
and  transports,  symbolizing  to  my  dizzy  mind 
the  fact  that  I  was  up  in  the  air,  but  that  I 
now  dreaded  nought  and  was  in  transports. 
My  abstracted  eye  also  registered  the  blue  and 
white  fiag  of  the  League  of  Nations,  proudly 
waving  from  a  former  German  boat  above  a 
large  white  sign  Waffenstillstand  —  the  symbol 
of  all  we  had  been  fighting  to  attain.  Waffen- 
stillstand I  Armistice!  Was  that  in  store  too  for 
Priscilla  and  me? 

I  thought  it  was.  Even  before  I  rang,  I  heard 
our  little  old  Gurlitt  melody  being  played  very 
softly  by  some  one  —  I  knew  whom  —  in  the 
corner  room. 

[  268  ] 


A    DUET    FOR    LIFE 

My  state  of  mind  robbed  me  of  the  power  of 
speech.  Without  the  customary  formalities  I 
burst  past  the-  frightened  mademoiselle  who 
opened  the  door,  and  in  half  a  dozen  strides  I 
was  at  Priscilla's  side. 

For  one  moment  she  looked  as  if  she  wanted 
to  get  behind  the  piano.  Then,  bless  her  dear 
little  heart!  she  looked  at  me  and  began  to 
laugh  irrepressibly,  and  a  little  hysterically. 

"I  hnew  you'd  do  it!  I  said  I*d  never  speak 
to  you  again,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
say  a  word  that  would  be  advances  —  and 
then—" 

"Never  mind  the  explanations.  Of  course 
you  knew  I'd  do  it,  you  little  angel!"  I  had  her 
in  my  arms  by  this  time,  and  was  occupying 
the  piano  stool  in  the  way  that  had  been  so 
familiar,  and  I  hope  always  will  be  —  the  only 
way  that  accommodates  two  persons  comfort- 
ably on  one  small  stool.  Neither  of  us  said  much 
that  was  coherent  for  a  few  minutes.  Priscilla 
was  the  first  to  attain  intelligent  speech. 

"To  think,"  she  said  slowly  and  convinc- 
[  269  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

ingly,  "that  any  two  people  could  be  such 
idiots." 

"We  are  n't!"  said  L 

"Of  course  we  are  n't.  I  mean  up  to  now  we 
have  been." 

"We  certainly  have,  when  I  might  have  been 
married  to  you  for  years  and  years  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  the  foolish  music." 

"The  dear  music,"  she  corrected,  tinkling 
with  one  hand  the  childish  Gurlitt  melody. 
"No  one  can  ever  persuade  me  that  that  is  n't 
the  finest  tune  in  the  world." 

A  disturbing  thought  came  into  my  mind. 

"Yes,  dear,  but  what  was  that  you  were 
playing  about  the  mighty  monster?" 
.    She  glanced  at  my  wrist  watch  and  gave  a 
little  scream  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  dear!  You  had  quite  driven  it  out  of 
my  head.  My  orders  are  to  sail  on  the  Levia- 
than in  two  hours." 

My  heart  sank.  Priscilla  and  I  seemed  fated 
never  to  come  together  without  being  torn 
apart  by  violence.  It  might  be  weeks  now  be- 
[  270  ] 


A    DUET   FOR   LIFE 

fore  I  could  get  away  from  this  hole  of  a  Brest 
and  follow  her. 

Priscilla  slid  from  my  knee. 

"It's  too  awful,  but  I  have  n't  a  minute  to 
lose  now.  I  must  get  my  things  together  and 
go.  Anyway,"  she  added  bravely,  "we're  sure 
to  meet  soon  over  there,  and  now  we've  made 
up  it  won't  be  so  bad." 

Our  lips  met  for  the  last  time  in  God  alone 
knew  how  long. 

Just  then  the  telephone  on  the  piano  rang 
violently.  Priscilla  answered,  then  held  it  out 
toward  me  with  a  look  of  perplexity. 

"It  must  be  for  you.  But  how  in  the 
world  — " 

"Hello,  Lieutenant,"  the  voice  said.  "This 
is  the  sergeant  over  to  Signal  Corps  Head- 
quarters. Got  a  little  inside  dope  for  you.  You 
see,  we  guys  is  in  the  know  on  most  every- 
thing that  goes  on.  You'd  better  beat  it  back 
to  the  Fort.  I  just  seed  yer  name  on  a  list 
of  sailing  orders  that's  on  the  way  out  there 
now." 

[  271  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

Blest  messenger  of  love!  My  heart  beat  high 
with  a  wild  hope. 

"Thank  you,  Sergeant.  Did  you  notice  the 
name  of  the  boat  I  drew?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  Leviathan.  Sails  in  two  hours." 

"Bully  for  you,  Sergeant.  Don't  forget  to 
hunt  me  up." 

"Sure.  One  thing  more,  sir."  There  was 
more  than  the  hint  of  a  broad  grin  in  his  voice. 
"There's  something  like  a  dozen  chaplains 
slated  fer  that  there  boat." 

I  hung  up  violently. 

"Priscilla!"  I  cried,  lifting  her  off  her  feet. 
"  Glory  hallelujah !  I  'm  sailing  with  you !  Would 
you  mind  being  married  by  an  army  chaplain 
on  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  monster?" 

"You're  going  altogether  too  fast,"  she 
said.  "For  goodness'  sake,  run  away  now  and 
let  me  pack!" 

We  had  packed  and  we  were  on  board,  and 
we  had  found  each  other  again  and  it  was 
moonlight,  and  there  was  actually  a  place  by 
[  272  ] 


A    DUET   FOR    LIFE 

the  port  rail  where  we  could  watch  the  moon 
and  the  receding  shores  of  France  in  compara- 
tive solitude.  My  arm  was  around  Priscilla's 
waist  —  naturally.  And  naturally  we  were  go- 
ing over  the  long  trail  that  it  had  been  neces- 
sary for  us  to  take  before  we  had  found  each 
other. 

"Was  n't  it  the  most  gloriously  improbable 
piece  of  fiddler's  luck  in  the  world,"  I  de- 
manded, "that  after  I'd  made  such  a  fool  of 
myself  about  the  way  you  played  when  we 
were  kids,  I  should  find  you  down  there  in 
Nice?  And  was  n't  it  a  miraculous  piece  more 
that,  after  I'd  spent  my  time  longing  for  you 
and  writing  booksful  of  letters  to  you  which 
you  never  got  —  you  should  be  in  Brest  when 
I  was?  And  was  n't  it  superlatively,  magnifi- 
cently wonderful  that  you  should  know  I  was 
there  and  play  tunes  down  the  telephone  to 
me?  Luck!  Can  you  deny  it,  Priscilla,  darling?  " 

Priscilla  looked  at  me  out  of  the  comers  of 
those  dear  blue  eyes  of  hers.  There  came  a  little 
twitch  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and  I  knew 
[  273  ] 


FIDDLER'S    LUCK 

that  her  sense  of  humor  was  going  to  get  the 
better  of  her  dignity,  as  it  always  had  at 
blessed  intervals. 

"You  might  call  it  fiddler's  luck,"  she  said 
thoughtfully,  "and  then  again,  you  might  n't. 
Unless  you  call  it  luck  to  have  me  awfully  in 
love  with  you." 

"You  darling!  The  greatest  luck  on  earth! 
But  just  what  do  you  mean?" 

"You  see,"  said  Priscilla,  in  the  manner  of 
one  who  takes  the  plunge,  "that  first  time, 
when  we  were  children,  after  I'd  got  over  hat- 
ing you  for  being  such  a  prig  about  the  way 
I  played  —  and  you  were,  you  know  you 
were  — " 

"I  was,  indeed!"  said  I  with  conviction.  "I 
acknowledge  it  freely.  Well?" 

"After  I  was  n't  angry  any  more,  I  saw  that 
there  might  be  something  in  what  you'd  said. 
So  I  practiced  very,  very  hard  for  years  after 
that.  I'd  thought  I  was  such  a  fine  player,  and 
you  told  me  I  was  n't.  Things  hurt  terrifically 
when  you're  a  flapper.  But  I  always  had  it 
[  274  ] 


A   DUET   FOR   LIFE 

ahead  of  me  that  some  day  I^d  meet  you  again 
and  play  —  beautifully!  And  you'd  be  sorry. 
So  it  was  you,  really,  that  made  me  play  well 
—  if  I  do.  And  you  know  the  standards  of  the 
Y  were  very  lofty  for  my  special  stunt.  If  you 
hadn't  said  those  horrid  things  long  ago,  I'd 
never  have  been  in  France  to  meet  you.  That 
was  n't  luck;  it  was  you,  you  see." 

"But  our  being  in  Nice  together,"  I  argued; 
**you  can't  say  that  wasn't  luck  from  on 
high." 

"  I  'm  very  foolish  to  deny  it,  I  suppose.  But  I 
always  want  to  tell  you  the  truth,  dear.  I  —  I 
saw  your  name  in  the  casualty  lists.  So  I  pulled 
all  the  wires  in  the  world  to  get  sent  to  Nice. 
I  knew  it  was  the  principal  place  where  Ameri- 
can oflScers  came  to  convalesce.  I  —  I  planned 
it.  And  when  you  wrote  me  you  were  to  sail 
from  Brest,  why,  I'm  afraid  I  planned  that 
too." 

Her  head  dropped  and  she  looked  stead- 
fastly away  from  me. 

"I'm  a  bold,  forward  girl,  and  you'll  have  it 
[  275  ] 


FIDDLER'S   LUCK 

to  remember  against  me.  But  I'd  always  re- 
membered, and  I  hoped  you  had,  and  I  — 
well,  I  just  thought  I'd  see.  .  .  •  That  was  why 
I  was  so  angry  at  you,  and  so  easily.  I  was 
really  angry  at  myself,  you  see,  for  running 
after  you  —  because  cats  would  call  it  that. 
Even  un-cats  might.  So  I  took  it  out  of  you, 
dear.  That's  why  I'm  telling  you.  I  —  I'm 
sorry.  But  you  see  it  really  was  n't  luck  after 
all." 

"Wasn't  luck?"  said  I,  gathering  her  up 
bodily  in  spite  of  the  danger  of  lurking  fellow 
passengers.  "It  was  and  always  will  be  the 
biggest  piece  of  fiddler's  luck  in  the  world  1" 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


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